


The One Swinging the Sword

by SpaceGoat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Corpses, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Imprisonment, Mild Language, Organs, Past Torture, Rats, Torture, alternative ending, sexual desire, trial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceGoat/pseuds/SpaceGoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It is Rochefort who is the traitor! Rochefort who is the enemy! And Rochefort who should be on trial!"</i>
</p><p>An alternative ending to 2x10. Having come face to face with the Musketeers, injured and desperate, Rochefort decides to surrender, to stand trial. Will he face certain death, or will his lies somehow save his neck from the executioner’s block? And will Aramis and Anne manage to escape unscathed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ROCHEFORT

**Author's Note:**

> An alternative ending to a series that I LOVED (and more of Rochefort who I both loved and loathed at the same time and wish that he had at least made it alive through another season!) This is going to be a long one, but I hope it's worth it!
> 
> It is told in alternating chapters from Rochefort, Aramis and Anne's points of view.
> 
> This story is based on the assumption that proceeding events from the episode were different:  
> • Louis has not yet met Vargas and so still has some degree of faith in Rochefort.  
> • My sister believes that Louis was all well and good with Rochefort killing Anne, but I disagree. So, in this story, having signed the death warrant, Louis was under the impression that it would not be Rochefort himself who would carry out the deed, instead believing that more official measures would quietly be taken.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers confront Rochefort in Anne's bedroom and he must make a choice.
> 
> Live, or die?

“Surrender.” Athos growled, his glare even more intense than usual. 

Rochefort despairingly took in the three blades aimed at him. Aramis was stood immediately behind him, ready to plunge his sword into the First Minister of France’s back once more. He felt his own weapon grow heavy in his hand, somehow feeling useless and unfriendly, as though it too had abandoned him. He had no musket to switch to; even if he had, he would only be able to take out one at best before he got his head blown from his shoulders. 

He hadn’t felt such pain since he had been in the Spanish prison. Blood was running down his back, hot and thick, from where the blade had entered and where the musket ball still was lodged deeply in his shoulder. There was a small pool forming on the floor by his boots, where his shirt was soaked and dripping slowly.

He was aware that Anne was watching, wrapped quietly in Constance’s embrace. His heart thudded with something that almost felt like embarrassment. He didn’t want to be like this in front of her, standing in his own blood, not having made a single scratch on Aramis’ sickeningly handsome face. A man unable to fight back, a man for whom failure was inevitable, weak and unable to prove his love. He felt a lump in his throat.

He looked at each Musketeer, loathing the sight of each one; Porthos, with his eye scarred, but not by the one he loved; d’Artagnan, impulsive to the point of foolishness; Athos, infuriatingly loyal.

Aramis, with Anne’s crucifix around his neck.

He could not fight them.

He hated to admit it. But he could not lie to himself now as he had so often lied to himself in the past. The same lie he had told himself as his Spanish captors burnt his flesh, half-drowned him, left him to starve for days on end. The same lie that he uttered in his oath to Vargas, his pledge of allegiance to a country that did not care if he lost his head in their service, so long as he brought down France before the sword fell.

**I am not afraid to die.**

But he was afraid.

If he fought on, he would die. 

And Anne would never see his love in all its strength.

He dropped his sword, hearing it hit the wooden floor with a final clatter. He stared at the ground, panting heavily and trying to ignore the pain that radiated through his back. Aramis grabbed his arm and forced him to his knees. He cried out in agony. For a brief moment, his stomach dropped. Were they going to kill him anyway? He remembered d’Artagnan’s protestations at Louis’ order of execution of one of his kidnappers. The boy could be merciful. But the others?

Would they execute him without even taking him to the king?

Athos nodded at Porthos, who swaggered over and knelt down beside Rochefort. The Comte braced himself for a dagger at the heart or throat. But the blow never came. Instead, he forcefully pulled off the traitor’s leather gloves and removed the ring that was the symbol of his power. He tossed it to Aramis, who silently approached Anne and presented it to her. Her fingers closed around it and Rochefort somehow knew that that was the closest that he’d ever be to her touching him again.

“Take him to the King,” Anne ordered quietly, “We will explain what he has done.”

“We have no guarantee that he’ll believe us. Even with Vargas’ testimony. He already thinks us traitors and attacking the First Minister isn’t going to look great.” Porthos stood to address them.

Rochefort felt Aramis binding his hands behind him, then gagging him with a torn strip of his shirt sleeve. The cloth tasted bitter in his mouth. He could smell Anne’s perfume on the Musketeers’ skin, on the strands of hair that fell forward. Was he just imagining it? 

They have no more evidence against me than they did before. The king will not believe them. Perhaps his luck was changing…he’d have another chance to get Aramis arrested and broken on the wheel. Then, he’d put Anne’s death warrant to good use- show her that her life depended on him, that she need only love him and he’d burn it.

“I think that he will believe us when he sees this,” Anne broke away from Constance and bent down to pick up the garrotte. Rochefort felt his heart sink. His crest was engraved into the metal.

Louis had ordered her death. But not by his hand. Only a royal executioner was technically allowed to see through a royal death warrant.

The King would see through any pleas he made. He’d find out that his most trusted advisor, the man he’d made First Minister was a Spanish agent. That he’d lied, murdered and cheated his way to the top. That he’d threatened the Lady Marguerite, made her poison the King and tormented her into suicide. That his wounded eye was not from hunting, but from forcing himself upon the Queen. 

There was no way to talk himself out of this.

“What is that?” d’Artagnan asked as he approached to comfort Constance.

Anne took a deep breath before answering.

“It was to be my crucifix.”

“On your feet,” Athos ordered and Rochefort found himself being dragged along the ornate corridors of the Queen’s quarters, towards the King’s. Captain Treville appeared seemingly from nowhere to grip one arm, d’Artagnan the other. Anne walked at the head of the group, carrying herself with such a regal grace that one would never guess how shaken she was. Constance held her hand.

Doors and rooms were passed with barely a glance, each empty and silent. The watchful eyes of dozens of portraits judged from the walls, hundreds of years of French kings casting their verdicts on the traitor. The bright light of the midday sky flooded through the tall windows.

It was the longest walk he’d ever made, his mind brimming with lies he could use to defend himself, but none that were convincing. Porthos disappeared down a flight of stairs as they paraded through the palace, confused servants, courtiers and Red Guards filing back in to witness the Comte being hauled along, bound and gagged like a common criminal. 

As they approached the door to the king’s bedroom, his stomach churned with nerves, something he was unaccustomed to.

The doors swung open and he was flung to the floor before the weak figure of Louis XIII, gasping as the skin on his back tore open again.

Louis stared at the party who had just burst in with wide eyes. Rising from his chair by the fireplace, wrapped in an ornate dressing gown, he seemed unsteady on his feet. He looked first at the injured body of Rochefort, before turning angrily to the Musketeers.

“What is the meaning of this? How dare you attack…!” His words trailed away as Anne appeared in the doorway. “What…why are you doing this?”

Anne gently walked over to him and took his hand. She moved her lips to her husband’s ear and whispered softly. Rochefort writhed at the sight of it, jealousy gnawing away at him. When the queen pulled her dainty hand away, the garrotte lay in Louis’ palm. The king slowly held it up, examining it, taking note of the coat of arms chiseled into its cold metal. Then he noticed the red mark on his wife’s neck and realization shone upon his face.

“He tried to strangle you.” 

She nodded.

“But… but I ordered... not like this… not by his hand… ungag him. I wish to hear what explanation he can provide.”

Rochefort felt d’Artagnan pull the cloth from his mouth. He coughed from the sudden freedom to breathe clearly, before words spewed from his lips.

“Your Majesty, whatever accusations these people bring against me… I can assure you… this all an elaborate scheme to remove me from your side… designed so that the Musketeer… Aramis… can continue his sordid affair with the queen, to make you, France, the dauphin, vulnerable to Spain’s advances…”

Louis cut him off with an oddly firm hand.

“Is this, or is this not your crest?”

“Your Majesty…”

“Answer the question Rochefort.”

Rochefort nodded slowly. The King already knew the answer- it would be foolish to deny it.

“It is.”

“Did you, or did you not try to kill the queen?”

“I…you signed the warrant, your Majesty….”

He lifted his head to meet the King’s gaze, suddenly very aware of the patch he used to hide his scarred eye, the only gift ever exchanged between Anne and himself that would never be given away to another.

“Your Majesty, I love the queen. I… I would never want to hurt her. Never. I was merely acting on your orders…”

“I ordered it to be quiet… and humane, not for you to throttle her like an animal!” Louis could not see Anne’s face, but Rochefort could see the betrayal set in her eyes as she realised what her husband had done.

“I beg your forgiveness… I misinterpreted. I assure you, had I known, I would have… your Majesty, I thought it best she not go through the torment of a formal execution… a sign of my… our respect and love…”

“He does not love the queen, he lusts after her!” Aramis charged forward, spitting as he spoke, and pulled off the eyepatch, revealing the bloodshot, useless eye. “Your majesty, this was no hunting wound, but one from a hairpin. One he gained when he forced himself on her! He could not have her so he tried to…!” His chest heaved with anger. 

“Aramis.” Athos cautioned.

Aramis paused to regain his composure, before whispering:

“I beg you, please do not be taken in by his lies. This attack was no misinterpretation, no act of compassion, but an act of jealousy. Anyone, anyone would have known what you meant under the circumstances.”

“Aramis speaks the truth.” Constance confirmed, stepping forward to stand beside the passionate Musketeer, “This man is a murderer and a liar. Jealous of the love the queen has for you, your majesty. He turned you against her and when she would not love him back…”

Louis absorbed the angry words being hurled at him, face contorting with confusion.

“I cannot believe that a servant of France would behave in such a way!” He finally argued back, though his hand still gripped the garrotte. “Rochefort has been nothing but loyal to me. He has saved my life on several occasions when you Musketeers failed to do so! He has protected the queen and my son from many threats, including…” He pointed accusingly, “…from Madame Bonacieux’s reckless medical practices. And I refuse to believe that… that he would manipulate… that he would intentionally…well, if he was not an ally to…”

“Rochefort is no friend of France.” 

The voice was solemn, with a thick Spanish accent. Vargas was pulled around the corner by a smug looking Porthos, hands chained. 

“Who are you?” Louis looked startled.

“Vargas. I am in the employ of the Spanish King.”

“Dealing in what?”

“Infiltration of the Royal Court.”

He fell silent, and Captain Treville stepped forward.

“Explain to the king why you were stationed in France.”

Vargas caught Rochefort’s eye and the Comte knew that it was all over.

“Your First Minister speaks Spanish very well. His reports were most fluent.”

The King gawped at the spymaster. Everything seemed still and silent, endlessly, as he processed the evidence before him. Then, he looked back at Rochefort, with a look that the Comte knew well; the childish anger that often struck with no chance of easing it or changing his mind. He refused to break eye contact, knowing that it would just prove his guilt. Instead, he vowed, he would remain steadfast, brave, as a noble should. He would hold his head high and show Anne that he was just as brave as Aramis, more so, in the face of certain death. If she loved a man who was dedicated to his duty and his God, then he would perform his duty of love to her until he was finally reunited with whatever God had cursed him with such a miserable life.

Perhaps then, when I stand on the scaffold, she will beg for mercy for me?

“Take him to the dungeons.” A vein in the king’s neck was throbbing with rage. His eyes screwed tightly, a frown heavily resting on his brow.

Rochefort found himself manhandled once again by the king’s guard dogs, on his feet and d’Artagnan stuffing the rag back into his mouth, making him gag. 

“What are you charging him with?” Treville asked seriously.

“High treason…” the King began.

“Murder. Attempted rape. Assault on the queen.” Constance spat.

“Espionage?” Vargas added, leading to Porthos’ heavy elbow in his side.

Louis took a step forward to face the Comte. Such a repulsive little man, trying to look authoritative, he thought. It had been so easy to manipulate him. And there was so much more to come. He doubted that they would execute him without a trial. He would have his say, defend his cause. 

And he would win.

For Anne.

“You will die for this Rochefort.” Louis threatened.

Anne stood unmoving beside the bed. The condemned man searched for any sign of emotion, a tear in her eye or a shaking hand, but found only a cold stare.

He could not look away from her beautiful face.

“You will look at me when I address you.” Athos’ gloved hand closed around his chin and pulled his focus away from her hauntingly blue eyes. Rochefort was forced to come face to face with the sniveling king that he so despised, to feel the breath that condemned him on his bruised cheeks, to hear a strength in his voice that had been so skillfully suppressed, return.

“You will die for this.”

Rochefort swallowed heavily.

“And when the executioner has taken your head, I will send it back to Spain as a warning. To anyone else who thinks that they can touch my queen.”


	2. ARAMIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' emotions get the better of him, resulting in a midnight rendezvous.

Treville, d’Artagnan and Athos had vanished around the corner with Rochefort, who seemed to barely be struggling. Probably, Aramis thought, because his injuries did not allow for it. He had left a bloody trail across the king’s bedroom floor, which Louis was staring at with unease, face pale and drawn.

“I’d like to thank you Musketeers… I cannot believe it… I trusted him.” His voice wobbled.

Aramis grinned a little at Porthos, who still had Vargas in grip. They didn’t want to point out to the king that he had an appalling history when it came to employing trustworthy advisors.

“Porthos, please escort Monsieur Vargas to the guest quarters. Ensure that he is comfortable but confine him there until I send for him.”

Vargas opened his mouth to protest, but Porthos nudged him forcefully.

“Would you prefer the dungeon?” He joked, steering him towards the door.

As they left the room, only Constance and Aramis remained with the king and queen. They stood in an awkward silence for several moments, absorbing what had just passed. Louis returned to his chair, slumping down into its plush cushions with a weary sigh.

“Leave me. I wish to think.”

Aramis removed his hat and bowed, but looked towards Anne as he stood upright again. She gripped the bedpost, eyes closed, tears dripping quietly down her rosy cheeks. What could he say, standing in the king’s presence, that would not attract suspicion but show her that he was here for her? He searched for the words but found none.

“Go.” Louis sounded impatient now.

Aramis felt a gentle hand on his arm and turned to see Constance, a reassuring smile on her lips. Slowly, he followed her lead and went to the door. Each step seemed more painful than the last, the distance between himself and Anne growing at a rate that he felt may never close up.

“Aramis.”

Her voice was strong. If he had not seen her face, he would never have imagined her to be crying.

“Your Majesty?” He turned to her.

She smiled sadly.

“Thank you, for everything. I hope you will continue to be so courageous.”

Aramis’ heart thudded madly inside his chest.

“Yes, your Majesty. I promise.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aramis drank deeply from his tankard, gradually feeling more and more understanding of Athos’ love of the drink. He knew that Rochefort was now incarcerated, facing trial and execution, and that gave him some form of relief. But no amount of alcohol could remove the nagging feeling that somehow the weasel would manage to lie his way back into the king’s favour and back into power.

“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Porthos sat down with a thud beside him, the bench scraping on the stone floor, “I’ve seen that look before. You always make the same face when you’re worried…and you’re worried that Rochefort isn’t goin’ to the scaffold yet.”

“The thought had crossed my mind…” Aramis glanced at him with a weak smile. 

Porthos patted his back and nodded over at Athos and d’Artagnan, who were deep in conversation about wine. d’Artagnan seemed to be only vaguely listening, staring at the wall and occasionally agreeing with Athos’ ramblings on how to distinguish a French wine from a Spanish wine. It apparently wasn’t that difficult, but their beloved leader seemed to be finding it difficult to get his point across in one sentence, instead preferring to slur and mumble disjointed words, slamming his tankard on the table whenever he became particularly impassioned.

“You know that even if Rochefort does go free, we’re not going to let him lock you up again. Although I’d take the dungeon any day to avoid that lecture. Bloody torture.”

Porthos took a swig of his own drink before chuckling to himself.

“D’ya think maybe our First Minister is interested in becoming a wine connoisseur…?”

Aramis grinned momentarily, before returning to staring into the depths of his beer. He couldn’t help but remember what Rochefort had said in his defense. That he had merely been following the king’s orders, carrying out the sentence passed when the death warrant had been signed.

How could anyone order the death of someone they loved?

His eyes fell on Athos again and he wondered where Milady had vanished to. Probably lurking in the shadows, waiting for her next chance to gain the king’s affections back.

Anne, however, was in the palace, alone and heartbroken.

Aramis wanted nothing more than to be beside her, to hold her, listen to her, feel her warmth in his arms and know that he had done everything he could to protect her. He wanted to cradle her, reassure her that she was not alone in France and need never be alone again, so long as he lived.

But he knew it could never be.

If I am seen alone with her again, he thought miserably, then Rochefort’s allegations would be believed. He would be released, allowed to strut around the palace once more with nothing to stop him. Anne would die, with no hope of redemption and he would die, strapped to a wheel. And what would happen to the dauphin? He could not risk it, not even with Rochefort chained in a cell and Marguerite rotting in an untimely grave. He shook the thought of the governess from his head, guilt overwhelming him and returned to thinking of his brave queen.

How can I be courageous, as I promised, he mulled miserably, with so much to lose?

“That’s fascinating, Athos.” d’Artagnan’s voice couldn’t have dripped with more boredom, but it shook Aramis from his daydream.

“Come on Athos, leave the poor man alone.” Aramis called.

Athos turned his glower on him.

“Students…will be…SILENT…when the teacher…is…s…s…speaking…”

And with a loud grunt, his head fell forward and banged loudly against the table. The tavern fell silent momentarily, as each drunken workman, flirtatious wench and rowdy gentleman turned to stare at the source of the noise, then returned to their merriness.

“I think it wise to get him back to the garrison, before Treville finds out that we let him get drunk…” Aramis drained the last drops of beer and stood.

Athos was now snoring loudly.

“I’m pretty sure that he’s probably off drunk somewhere as well,” d’Artagnan smirked, hauling Athos over his shoulder, “It’s been a long day.”

The four men set off from the tavern, Aramis trailing behind, taking in the night. It seemed much like any other night; boots sinking into the mud, flickering candles in windows, the moon casting dark shadows across the twisting streets. The air stank of alcohol and piss. Laughter appeared to be coming from every house. He watched his companions stagger ahead of him, Porthos roaring with laughter at how ridiculous they looked. He had realised that he enjoyed life, especially now that he had come so close to losing it.

He thought of the oath he had made when praying for escape. He dreaded the time when he would have to tell the others of his resignation and dreaded his future even more. Yes, he loved God and would never deny his faith, but the prospect of a lifetime of peace, quiet, prayer and reflection left him feeling empty inside.

And of course, it meant a lifetime without Anne. 

He couldn’t imagine a version of his future with her in it. Not one that he found realistic. He would either be apart from her, and from his son, caged in a monastery, or die beside her on the scaffold should the truth ever be fully proven.

Suddenly, he knew he had somewhere to be.

“Hurry up will ya, Aramis?” Porthos yelled over his shoulder. Aramis knew that he had to go now, or he wouldn’t get another chance.

“You go on ahead… I, uh…left my musket in the tavern.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan frowned at each other, before simultaneously turning back to tell him that they saw right through his lies, even with a drunken haze smothering them. But he had already vanished, rushing away toward the palace.

“I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid…” d’Artagnan murmured.

“Of course he will…” Athos had stirred, groaning and rubbing his aching head, “He’s Aramis.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aramis couldn’t decide whether he regretted going or not. He’d told himself that it was no time to be reckless, but he knew that he would never be able to sleep if he wasn’t. He had so much he wanted to say.

Louis had increased the number of Red Guards surrounding the palace and stationed at gates, evidently shaken by the discovery of treachery within the walls. However, the new recruits were no less stupid than their superiors and Aramis managed to evade them easily, without so much as having to knock out a single one. If these are the finest soldiers France has to offer, then it is no wonder that Spain finds it so easily to infiltrate the royal court, he worried.

The palace itself was quiet. Most of the rooms were dark, corridors empty and silent. Aramis’ footsteps echoed slightly and he walked a little faster, knowing he was risking everything just by being there. 

If someone saw him, especially a guard, they would shoot, no matter that he was still in his Musketeer uniform.

He passed through the palace, into a wide courtyard. Hurrying across it, he approached a wooden door with a heavy metal latch and passed through. Turning a sudden corner, he came face to face with a tall, broad shouldered guard, sword still sheathed, who glared at him through sunken eyes.

“What are you doing here…?” His eyes widened with recognition, “It’s you…! The Musketeer! The one who…with the queen…”

He did not finish his sentence. Aramis had elbowed him squarely in the face, knocking him unconscious. 

“I really hope you don’t remember that.”

Like a phantom, he stole through the winding passages, clutching to Anne’s crucifix and hoping that there were no others on duty. Only torchlight lit his way and he decided to take one from the wall, as a precaution against unexpected darkness or opponents. It was uncomfortably warm against his face. He sweated under his hat, the alcohol lingering in him making him feel nauseous. He wanted to stop and rest, breathe, but pressed on, knowing it was only a matter of time before someone discovered the guard and realised that something was amiss.

When he reached the door, he wasted no time in pushing it open.

Several faces turned to stare at him, wondering who the midnight intruder was, but none were familiar.

Except one.

“I thought you might come.”

Rochefort appeared at the bars of his cell.

“I’ve not finished with you yet.” Aramis remained in the doorway, hanging the torch on the wall.

Rochefort smirked with a hint of his usual smugness. He rested his hands through the gaps in the cell bars and leaned, relieving the pressure from his bandaged back.

“So predictable Aramis. One sword in the back wasn’t enough to satisfy your inflated ego and so now you’ve come to finish the job. Once again, you’ve proved, in true Musketeer fashion, that your stupidity is only outweighed by your arrogance.”

Aramis could feel his rage boiling inside of him.

“I’m not here to kill you,” he growled, charging forward, “but don’t tempt me.”

Coming opposite to the cell, the very same that he had spent several days imprisoned in, he saw that the Comte was only a shadow of his former self. All of the grandeur and nobility he conducted himself with had almost gone. He stood, clothes torn, wrists and ankles both chained to the wall. The guards who’d dragged him there had clearly seized the opportunity to attack him. He had scratches on his face and the scar over his eye had opened up again. He seemed to be weeping blood.

“If you’re not here to kill me, then why would you risk…”

“Because I’m here to threaten you.”

Aramis could see the relief in his eyes, although he had clearly tried not to show it. The Musketeer went a little closer, hand resting on a small, concealed dagger and lowered his voice.

“You know as well as I do, Rochefort, that nothing can save you. The king may be unwilling to execute you immediately, but this trial will be just a charade. The moment they find you guilty of being a Spanish spy and a traitor, which they will, that is certain, the king will have your head.”

Rochefort rolled his eyes.

“And you tell me this, why?”

“I want you to do something.”

“Enlighten me.”

Aramis took a deep breath. He had one shot at this.

“I want you to retract any allegations against the queen concerning her fidelity. And I want you to do it when they call you to give evidence. You’ve got nothing to lose by showing some compassion. If you know you face the executioner, and even if I stand up there charged with the same fate, do not take Anne down with you.”

A low chuckle came from the prisoner’s throat.

“Not all of us are so willing to lie under sacred oath.”

Aramis lunged forward and grabbed the front of Rochefort’s shirt, who grunted in pain as he was pulled into the iron bars.

“You’ll be lying about everything else. Why not this?”

Rochefort smiled a little, something like triumph crossing his face. When he spoke again, Aramis heard a mad lust behind his words, one which he could only imagine Anne had heard when he’d attacked her in her chambers. It sent shivers down his spine to think of her cornered by this monster.

“If I cannot have her, then no one can. If I cannot have her, neither can you.”

Aramis felt bile in his throat. Angered, he rammed Rochefort into the bars again, taking some form of satisfaction from the clang as the man’s skull collided with the metal and the cry of pain that followed. A prisoner from opposite cheered. Aramis shot him a furious look and the prisoner quickly fell silent, retreating away back into the safety of his cell. Turning back to the Comte, whose face was now even more bloodied, he released the shirt fabric from his fists. Rochefort staggered back, dazed, and tripped over his chain. He tumbled to the ground, a pitiful heap covered in dust and straw.

“Reconsider. Now.”

No response.

“SHE DOESN’T LOVE YOU, DAMMIT,” He didn’t care if he was heard, “ I WILL NOT SEE THE WOMAN I LOVE DIE BECAUSE OF YOU.”

Rochefort was on all fours, spitting blood. He raised his head slightly.

“Perhaps, if you ask nicely, she can see you die first.”

Aramis pulled out his musket and loaded it, fumbling with the ammunition in his rage. He aimed it at the prisoner. Rochefort clumsily stood up and approached the bars again, chains scraping along the stone with a painful screech. The Musketeer felt his finger squeeze the trigger gently, aching with the urge to pull. He hadn’t felt this nervous taking a shot since the first time he killed a man and the memory of it made keeping a steady hand even harder. He wished Porthos was beside him, to calm his nerves. Or Athos, to tell him how stupid he was being.

Rochefort came close and, with a fierce look in his eyes, rested his bruised forehead against the barrel of the gun. His skin was slick with sweat and he trembled slightly.

“Shoot me.”

Aramis gaped at him.

“You’re a Musketeer, aren’t you? Shoot me.”

Aramis did nothing.

Rochefort smiled triumphantly.

“You see, Aramis,” the Comte murmured with slick confidence, “my forthcoming trial is like this gun. Loaded with ammunition. That’s your testimony. Vargas’. Anne’s. Even Madam Bonacieux’s if she decides that she’s not needed to be meddlesome somewhere else that day. The gun is then aimed at my head. The craftsmanship is sound. The bullets well designed. If it were to be fired, the result would be exactly as desired.”

“Where are you going with this…?”

“Don’t you understand, Aramis? The only flaw in this perfect method of execution is the marksman. He acts strong. He pretends to have the courage to shoot a man squarely in the face. But when the time comes, his stomach turns. He sweats into his boots. Can barely hold the weapon. When people question why he cannot perform his duty, he cries and whines about how he cannot kill his friend, a man he trusted, a man who served him loyally. And when the man with a gun to his head provides proof, undeniable proof, that those telling the marksman to shoot… a Spanish stranger adept at lies and tricks… his soldiers… his queen… … are mere traitors… then the marksman falters, drops his weapon and the condemned is spared.”

Aramis did not lower his weapon. “The king no longer considers you a friend. He will not fall for more of your accusations about the dauphin’s legitimacy.”

“I think he may give them some attention when he discovers this conversation took place.”

Aramis suddenly realised that he’d made a huge mistake. 

Rochefort leaned in close.

“You mark my words, Musketeer,” he hissed, “When the time comes, it’ll be you, and not I, walking to the scaffold. You and the queen. And I’ll be the one swinging the sword.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your amazing support so far! It's only been 24 hours and I'm shocked at the response! I've started writing chapter 3, but it'll be a couple of days before it's up, probably no later than next Monday (most likely Sunday)! :D
> 
> I'm thinking that after that, it'll be a weekly thing, updating every Sunday (because writing chapter 3 as fast as I possibly could has been A NIGHTMARE in terms of writer's block!)


	3. ROCHEFORT AND ANNE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rochefort is haunted by his past. Anne is haunted by her future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! This chapter was strangely tricky to write but I got there in the end!
> 
> I've decided that from now on, I'll be updating every Sunday (gives me plenty of time to plan/write and live my life, which I've not done over the past 48 hours...seriously, I've done nothing but sleep, binge eat cookies and write this xD)
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support!

Aside from Aramis’ moonlight visit, the Comte had spent the great deal of the night slumped against the cold wall, trying to sleep. He had not succeeded. The cell was cold and draughty, not at all like the stifling, airless prisons in Spain and he was shivering uncontrollably. Perhaps I will die of cold before all of this comes to anything, he pondered. Pathetic, to die in such a weak way after all that I have endured.

Seeing Aramis through the bars had alarmingly reminded him of the five years’ imprisonment he had suffered at the hands of the Spanish. The man’s golden skin and dark hair seemed so similar to that of his captors, his torturers, and Rochefort could not help but remember the countless times they had appeared at his cell, grinning at the prospect of inflicting more pain upon him.

Whips. Fire. Chains. Blades.

They’d even dragged him to the scaffold, hood over his head and read him his last rites. They left him there, noose around his neck or the sound of the sword being sharpened ringing in his ears, until he cried with fear, only to take him back to his cell, laughing at how he’d begged for mercy.

He couldn’t even count how many times it had happened.

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Aramis’ face seemed to be floating in front of him. He swiped at it, trying to scratch at the flesh. He hit nothing but air. As the face appeared again, he lashed out once more, failing still. It seemed so real, as real as the stone beneath him or the chains around his feet. Every detail seemed so perfect- even down to the band around his hat.

“Her face… let me see her face…“ He gasped.

But still the Musketeer’s face grinned at him, familiar bejewelled crucifixes glinting in his eyes, taunting him with the symbol of Anne’s love.

I gave it to her. I gave her my heart.

I taught her to love. 

And yet she would not appear before him now, in his hour of need, to comfort him.

To love him.

Rochefort cried out in frustration and slammed his hand against the wall.

“Please do not hurt yourself.”

His fist stopped mid-air, about to crash into the wall once again. Slowly, he turned to look at the corner where the voice had come from. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, blood rushing, his hands trembling with anticipation. And when he saw who sat there, bathed in moonlight, tears pricked his eyes and he lost all words.

Her hair was fairer than it was now, bleached by the Spanish sun. It tumbled past her shoulders, soft curls brushing against her cheeks and wafting softly in the wind; not at all proper for a queen. She was wearing the same dress that he’d last seen her in before her wedding day: a beautiful pale green, silk and lace, skirts spread out around her as she knelt on the floor. Her skin glowed, no royal burdens having yet made their mark upon it, eyes luminous and innocent.

“Please do not hurt yourself. I cannot bear to see you in pain.”

Rochefort felt weaker at the sight of her.

“You…you came…”

Anne beamed, with a youthfulness that did not seem possible.

“Of course I did. You are my friend. My dear, dear friend.”

“You have not visited…since I was in Spain…” he breathed.

“You did not need me.”

“Of course I needed you.” His voice caught in his throat. It hurt to speak. “I… I thought…I thought you had abandoned me.” 

She wore the crucifix around her slender neck. It glittered as it caught the light and Rochefort could think of nothing but it resting against Aramis’ breast instead. He pointed at it, a sickly smell of infected wound and sweat filling his nose as he moved.

“You gave it to another…”

Rochefort felt something wet on his cheeks. He could not tell if it was blood or tears, but did not wipe it away to find out. Instead, he stared, entranced at the young woman, unable to look away from her angelic face. He hoped that none of the other prisoners would leer at her. Her beauty was for his eyes only- she had come to visit him after all.

“I promised that I would always wear it. And I have.” She caressed it lovingly.

Anger surged in his breast.

“That is a lie.” He spat. “I saw it around his neck…why…why are you lying to me?”

She did not seem hurt at his words. Only confused.

“I would never lie to you. I love you.”

“But…but you do not love me… the real Anne does not love me…” He could not hide his bitterness, his contempt for this spectral woman, so close an imitation but still never as satisfying as the real thing. He wanted to shout, but his throat was so dry from dehydration that every word felt like someone had thrust a dagger down it, cutting into the delicate flesh.

The smile did not leave her face, but her shoulders sagged a little. 

“I…I’m sorry… I…” he began.

He could not bear to see her look so upset. It reminded him of the fear that had radiated from the queen’s face when he had told her of his love. A fear that broke him, a horror that he did not understand. Was he so much of a monster to her? 

“You are the only man I could ever love, Rochefort.”

Her voice echoed.

“I may only be in your mind, a companion for you when you are lost and lonely. I may be nothing more than a shadow of her. But, Anne loves you too. The real Anne.” She stood and approached him silently, her feet making no sound against the stone, the scattered straw never shifting as she passed over it. She knelt beside him and tenderly took his face in her hands. Rochefort closed his eyes and nuzzled into them, not caring that no warmth came from her flesh. He savoured the sensation of her fingertips brushing over his neck, his cheeks, and the purple scar under his eye.

She pressed her lips to his forehead.

“And while she discovers this truth, you have me to love you.”

She kissed his lips and he ran his fingers through her hair, gripping it and twisting it between his fingers, no concern as to how tightly he held it. She pulled away a little, but he held close, preventing her from breaking the kiss. He forced his tongue into her mouth. His other hand grabbed her corseted waist, desperate to rip away the clothing.

She is an illusion, he conceded begrudgingly, and pulled away a little, removing his tongue.

I wonder if the real Anne kisses like this?

If she would kiss me like this someday?

He panted heavily, trying to breathe, kiss and speak all at once, so consumed by his lust and passion that he could not concentrate on one.

“What… of… Aramis…?”

“She…does not…love him…truly…” she soothed, “She will forget him…you must…help her… forget him…” She broke away from him. “If she forgets the Musketeer, she will see you. The man who risked his life for love of her. The man I see now. And she will love him.”

“How will I achieve this…?” He was overwhelmed by the sweet scent of her perfume.

Her smile returned to her face.

“There is more than one way to be guilty of treason.”

A small sliver of orange sunlight broke through the window, as the dawn broke over Paris. The light hurt Rochefort’s eyes. He screwed them up, head suddenly hurting from the intensity of it. Had he slept at all? The night had seemed both endless and fleeting at the same time.

And he could no longer feel her in his arms.

“Anne…Anne…?” He croaked. 

When he opened his eyes, he was alone.

#

Two days after Rochefort’s capture, the queen knelt in her bedroom, at her personal altar. She prayed quietly, a small part of her still believing that Comte lurked outside her door, listening to her every word, ready to twist them into lies and accusations once more. Her neck twinged with the memory of his garrotte around it, of his fingers stroking it. This was the first time she had prayed since he had attacked her, and she felt vulnerable. Uneasy.

She prayed for her son’s safety. She prayed for her own safety. 

And she prayed for Aramis.

She wondered when she would next see him. She knew that they had to maintain a distance now, a divide that made her heart feel as though it would break. She yearned for his company, to see the confident spark in his eyes or the caring smile on his lips. To see him hold his son.

All she could see now were a few drops of Rochefort’s blood that had dried into the floor.

She hated him. She had surprised herself with how intense her hatred had become, especially as it was directed towards a man she had once considered a friend. She thought back on her time with him before she had married Louis, happy memories once, now tarnished with a sinister desire that made her skin crawl. Was I so blind, so naïve as a child that I did not notice, she wondered? 

No. He was…is a skilled liar. I could never have known.

And she knew that more lies would come- Louis was still uncertain of the Comte’s guilt, despite so much evidence having already been presented. The traitor had plenty of opportunities to worm his way back into the king’s head. And what then? Would her throat be cut in her sleep if she did not submit her body for Rochefort’s pleasure?

There was a loud knock on her door.

She stood hurriedly, brushing her skirts flat and tucking a few stray hairs behind her ears. She momentarily glanced towards an ornate candlestick beside her, but decided against it.

He is in the dungeon. And he certainly would not have knocked.

“Who is it?”

“Treville, your Majesty. May I speak with you?”

She sighed with relief.

“Enter.”

The veteran Musketeer appeared around the door and stood to attention. He had dark circles under his eyes and his hair seemed to be greyer than normal. He held himself steady, but Anne could tell that he had not slept for several days.

“You are exhausted. Please, sit down,” she gestured to a chair, but he bowed his head respectfully.

“You are very kind, your Majesty. Thank you.” He made no move towards it. ”I hope I am not interrupting you, but I have an important matter to discuss. Concerning the trial.”

Anne felt her face fall and she sat on the end of her bed, not caring that she did not maintain the regality that a queen was supposed to hold herself with at all times. She trusted Treville and knew that she could be open, even emotional with him. I trusted Rochefort, she began to think, but shook that from her head rapidly. If I question my belief in all of my friends, then I will become lonelier than I have ever been before. I cannot let my life be controlled by the actions of one madman.

“The king is overseeing the arrangements. He thought it best that I not be involved. It would probably be wiser to discuss your matter with him.”

Treville shook his head seriously.

“This matter does not concern the king. It concerns the arrangements that need to be made should Rochefort not be dealt a guilty verdict.”

Anne inhaled sharply.

“I am sorry, your Majesty, but it is a prospect that we need to consider.”

“Yes, of course…”

She had hoped that it was a prospect that she merely imagined, but Treville saying it so bluntly suddenly showed her that it was an all too real possibility.

“What sort of arrangements?”

Treville took a small step forward, pristinely polished boots clacking on the wooden floor.

“We may have to entertain the idea of your travelling back to Spain, with the dauphin…” he glanced over his shoulder, to listen for footsteps outside the door, before continuing in a low voice, “...and Aramis. If Rochefort is released, it will be because he has managed to convince the king of the illegitimacy of the dauphin. All of your lives will be in danger.”

Anne shook her head.

“Running away will leave France vulnerable to Rochefort’s schemes. I may not be French by blood, but I am at heart, as is my son. I cannot allow that to happen.”

Treville approached her now, and knelt in front of her to look her in the eye.

“They say Rochefort speaks your name in his sleep. That he talks to someone who is not there. It is far too dangerous for you to stay here if he is free.”

Anne paused to think. Be courageous, she had told Aramis. She needed to be brave too. Could there be courage in fleeing, especially if it were to save her son’s life?

“What about the king? Are you making arrangements for him?”

“Our first priority is to you and the dauphin.”

“But you are the _King’s_ Musketeers.”

Treville gave a sad smile.

“If Rochefort is reinstated back into power, to poison the King’s mind once more, war with Spain could be imminent. And it is likely, with a Spanish agent placed so perfectly within the royal court, that his Majesty will be assassinated. The French people will look towards their new king… and the Queen Regent. If you too are lost, then France will come to ruin, fall victim to a Spanish invasion.”

Anne gracefully stood and walked over to the window. It overlooked the grounds, which were normally so beautiful, but now seemed to have wilted and died, all colour and life faded from the leaves and flowers. She couldn’t imagine leaving it all behind.

I felt the same way about leaving Spain, she admitted.

“Be assured, your Majesty, the Musketeers who remain at the King’s side will endeavour to prevent that from happening. I am simply describing the worst case scenario.”

She wished that she could make Louis see sense. She wished that he would prove himself a wise and just king, that he would see beyond the toxic words from Rochefort’s lips and see the consequences of freeing him. She wished, just for once, that he would listen to her and trust her judgement.

“If I stay here, I will be able to protect my husband, but not myself, or my son. If I leave, I save my son and condemn the king to death.” 

She turned back to look at the Musketeer, the weight of her decision lingering on her face.

“How could I possibly make that choice?”

Treville gave her a sympathetic look, one that suddenly reminded her of her father, who had often looked so sincere and empathetic.

“I trust your judgement, your Majesty. You must do what you believe to be best.”

He stood to attention and bowed.

“I will take my leave, to give you time to decide.”

He strode towards the door, disguising a small yawn as reached it. Anne saw his gloved hand rest on the handle, ready to pull it open and her stomach dropped. She didn’t want to be left alone again.

“Treville…”

“Yes, your Majesty?”

Anne dropped all sense of propriety and rushed over to him, throwing her arms around his neck. She buried her face in his shoulder. She felt him tense, before he tentatively wrapped his arms around her. He smelt like gunpowder and alcohol, which strangely comforted her, the slight scratch of his beard against her skin calming. She could not remember the last time she embraced her father, but she imagined that it felt something like this.

“I am so tired of all this talk of treason...” She whispered, “Rochefort has ripped everything apart…”

“Your Majesty, this is not appropriate…” he protested.

“Promise me… if Rochefort is released, you will force Aramis to flee, with or without me.”

Treville stumbled over syllables and removed his arms from around her. She in turn released him and took a step away, cheeks slightly tinged with embarrassment, but her gaze firm and stoic. He bowed once more, humbly fitting back into his proper place.

“I cannot promise that, your Majesty.”

“Why not?” She had an angry edge to her voice.

He straightened his back.

“I cannot force Aramis to ignore his heart. If I could… if I had….then things would be a lot simpler."

He paused to take a solemn breath.

"And there would be a lot less to lose.”


	4. ARAMIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis learns what may come to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Here it is, a whole day early! I've really enjoyed writing this one- it's the longest one yet!
> 
> Just thought I'd add a short music playlist at the beginning of this one, with the music I write to. I'm someone who tends to listen to the same songs ENDLESSLY, so it's pretty short.
> 
> KNOCKING ON HEAVEN'S DOOR- RAIGN  
> SAVED- KWABS  
> MOLITVA- MARIJA SERIFOVIC (for this chapter especially- it's my new favourite!)  
> TAKE ME TO CHURCH- HOZIER
> 
> There's a couple of cheesier songs as well, but those are the more emotional ones.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“YOU THREATENED ROCHEFORT?” Athos snarled.

“Well, actually he probably did more threatening than I did in the end…” Aramis joked lamely.

The four Musketeers were gathered around a table in the garrison, idly wasting time before they were due to attend the first hearing that afternoon. The sun was concealed by ominous clouds and there was a bitter chill in the air, despite it being almost summer. The garrison was bustling, each soldier cleaning his gun, polishing his boots, sharpening his sword, in preparation for the trial. Normally, they would not go to such an effort- they certainly had not for Aramis- but this was high profile, the talk of the town. 

A noble accused of treason. The First Minister for that matter.

And there was a possibility of a Spanish rescue attempt.

Aramis doubted that anyone would come for Rochefort. He was merely a pawn, as Marguerite had been. Easily disposed of. Easily replaced.

He had toyed with the idea of sharing his encounter with Rochefort with the others for three days. He had wondered whether he should tell them all individually, starting with Porthos, who he hoped would be the most understanding of why he went. But he hadn’t found the right time, and so had had to settle with a group announcement… on the morning of the trial.

“With God as my witness, Aramis, I swear you are the stupidest man I’ve ever met.” Athos grumbled, running his hands through his hair in frustration, mussing it up even more.

“You do realise he’ll use it against you in court?” d’Artagnan looked just as exasperated as Athos.

“Yes, he made that fairly clear…”

“And he’ll probably get creative with it,” Porthos added, “Don’t be surprised if you end up doing a hell of a lot more than ya’ actually did.”

Aramis couldn’t help but grin a little.

“Well, just so long as he keeps it family friendly…”

“GOD DAMMIT, ARAMIS!” Athos burst, sending a flock of pigeons flapping madly from the rooftops above. Several of the other Musketeers turned to stare. As a pair of dark, sunken eyes lifted to glower at them, they took it as a cue to return to their own business, making as much noise as possible to prove that they were no longer listening. Nevertheless, Athos lowered his voice before speaking again. 

“ _This is no time to jest._ You threatened the First Minister. You assaulted a Red Guard in the process. You have given Rochefort more evidence to use against you. Against the _queen_.”

Porthos, who had chuckled, wiped the smile from his face. Athos reached under the table and produced, like a magician in the Court of Miracles, a bottle of wine, which he placed before him with a melancholy thud. Judging from the state of the bottle, Aramis almost assumed that he had just found it by the roadside. It looked as though it had been homemade, (it certainly was not one of the refined vintages that the Comte de la Fère used to drink), and stored under floorboards, dust and unidentifiable dark stains across the glass.

“I thought I was going to need this _after_ the trial..”

Uncaring as to who was watching, the Musketeer uncorked it and gulped down a large mouthful, trying to drown out the image of his friend’s corpse rotting on a scaffold in front of the Palais du Justice. He didn’t offer to share.

They didn’t want any anyway. The overwhelming smell of it made Aramis gag.

D’Artagnan wrinkled his nose and turned back to the point at hand.

“Porthos is right. He will twist the truth to his own advantage, to convince the king that he was right in naming you a traitor. He probably spent last night reopening any wounds that you gave him.”

“It was a mistake, I know that,” Aramis defended, “but I had to try. God willing, he will listen and retract his accusations against the queen.”

“God willing? He may have been the Cardinal’s man once, but God abandoned him long ago.” Athos wiped away any liquid that had dribbled down into his stubbly beard. Aramis’ mind wandered for a moment, questioning when he had taken to drinking so much again.

“But He hasn’t abandoned her. I believe that these three days will have allowed Rochefort to change his mind. The guards say he hallucinates in the night, talks to her, tells her he loves her. If there is any chance that he might save himself AND have the real queen under his control, then that is what he’ll do. Rochefort will probably focus on getting me arrested for…well, anything he can think of… and if that puts me on the wheel, so be it. But I will die knowing that she is alive and will remain that way. And I trust that you’ll do whatever needs to be done when I am gone.”

“If you think for even one minute that we’re gonna let you get executed…” Porthos began.

“Keep speaking so loudly and you’ll _all_ get executed” Treville marched through the garrison gates, his boots and the bottom of his steel-blue cloak dusty from the walk to the palace, “I could hear you from the street. Rochefort may still have spies we don’t know about, so keep it down when talking about such things. Aramis, with me.”

The stairs creaked with the sheer force of his footsteps, the timbers shuddering and groaning. Aramis dutifully followed, leaving his friends exchanging glances. He noted that Treville was leaving behind a slight smell of salt water and damp wood. 

He entered his Captain’s office and shut the door behind him.

Treville slid off his cloak and threw it over the back of a chair, before starting to clear away a pile of parchments and papers from his desk. Aramis removed his hat and thumbed the brim of it nervously, a sinking feeling in his stomach telling him that he already knew that this was going to be about.

“I visited the queen yesterday.”

“How is she?” He was restrained.

“She’s still a little shaken, but well. She is allowed to wander the palace again, but chooses to stay in her chambers, leaving only to visit the dauphin.”

“Is she…is she alone?” Aramis despaired at the thought of her shut in the palace, shunned and ignored by those who still found truth in her treasons.

“I believe Constance stays with her.”

Aramis marvelled at the love and bravery within that woman’s heart. He’d heard of her courage when she faced her death, even after witnessing Lemay’s murder. And he’d seen the strength she had found after, to threaten Vargas, return to Paris and fight Rochefort. 

A Musketeer in all but title.

“d’Artagnan is a lucky man,” he smiled, “to have the love of such a woman.”

Treville opened a drawer and thrust the gathered papers inside, leaving the desk empty, except for one plain sheet of parchment, a pot of ink and a quill that had nearly lost all of its feathers. He settled in the chair, but did not begin to write. Instead, he folded his arms and stared at the dashing Musketeer.

“You could have had the same happiness if you’d chosen differently.”

Aramis shook his head.

“No. I couldn’t.”

The newly reinstated Captain nodded once, resignedly, before continuing.

“When I spoke to the queen, I posed to her a scenario where Rochefort is not found guilty of his crimes. A situation where she would have to choose whether to stay in France or return to Spain.”

“…What did she say?” Aramis murmured.

“I left her to think about it. She seemed upset at the idea of leaving the king on his own. However… she summoned me today with her response.”

Aramis felt his heart leap into his throat.

“And?”

Treville silently reached for the quill and dipped the end into the ink. The scratching it made as he wrote on the parchment irritated Aramis- it seemed to be elongating an unnecessarily long pause. The Captain had written about five excruciatingly detailed sentences before he pushed the paper to face him.

“This letter will explain to anyone who reads it, be it a sailor, soldier or gendarme, that you have been honourably discharged from the King’s Musketeers. That you are not a deserter, not a traitor, and are certainly not accompanying the queen and the dauphin back to Spain. However, if the time comes to use it… the exact opposite will be true in the eyes of the law and the King.”

Aramis approached the desk and tentatively picked up the letter.

“I just returned from the docks. I have the confidence of a Spanish trader, who has agreed to take three passengers on board if called upon. He does not know your identities. Simply the fact that the couple will be travelling with a small child.”

Reading over the words, Aramis felt tears prick in his eyes. It seemed beyond belief that because he followed his heart, he would have to flee the country he served, the country he loved, under pain of death. That because he fell in love with a woman he could never have, he had to leave his post, his friends, his _brothers_. Who knew when he would be reunited with them?

Yet, a part of him felt hopeful.

A life apart from France meant a life with Anne.

With his son.

Could France’s downfall give me my freedom, he imagined?

“If this comes to pass, you must take the queen and the dauphin to her brother, the King. You must wait until war has passed, until Rochefort is dead…until the time when France calls upon its new sovereign. The queen will return with the new king, to claim his throne and restore peace.”

He had expected nothing less. He drifted away into his thoughts slightly, wondering what it would be like to serve as a Musketeer under his son’s reign. To see him grow into fine king, one who would be remembered as a new hope for the French people. I could teach him how to shoot, to handle a sword. When he’s old enough, I could teach him how to talk to girls…he smirked at the thought. Well, perhaps that’s not wise…

It was only then he realised that Treville had left a terrible pause. 

The smile disappeared from his face.

“What are you trying so hard not to tell me?”

The Captain straightened his back, bracing himself.

“When the queen returns to France…”

“Yes…?”

”You must stay in Spain.”

Aramis felt his optimism drain away, as though someone had stabbed him in the heart and was watching blood seep out of him. He dropped the letter back on the desk, fingers unable to hold the warrant that secured him a life of lonely exile.

“Why?” He challenged, anger tinging his voice.

“The dauphin’s legitimacy will have already been called into question during the trial. These rumours will be considered proven if you disappear with the queen. Therefore, the only way we can ensure that the dauphin takes the throne and see France’s monarchy restored fully, with his parentage unquestioned, is to give you another role to play. That of a Spanish agent, employed by the queen’s brother to protect her.”

So he was to play traitor. Have his name marked in the history books as a deceitful liar, a treacherous villain, a coward who betrayed everything he stood for. Aramis knew how traitor’s stories ended; at the end of a rope, to be tossed into an unmarked grave, or in a ditch at the side of the road, throat slit. Is that to be my end, he wondered?

He would never see Anne or his son again.

He would probably have to change his name. Become faceless. Nothing but a ghost.

Porthos. Athos. D’Artagnan. Constance. 

They would simply be memories.

“I’m sorry, Aramis.”

The hopeless Musketeer choked back his cries. His shaking hand closed around Anne’s crucifix.

“Is there no other way?” He begged.

“No...” Treville stood, walked around the desk and placed his hands on Aramis’ shoulders. “This is for the good of France. You chose a life of duty. You were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice… _any_ sacrifice… when you swore your oath. But we can stay positive for now... Rochefort hasn’t been exonerated yet. There is still hope that you can remain here.”

Aramis nodded, biting his lip to keep from crying. 

He rarely felt fear. He didn’t even fear death, with the comforting notion of Heaven waiting on the other side. But when faced with this life of solitude? He’d never felt so helpless, so unable to control his own fate. It was like staring into an abyss that absorbed all light, sound and sensation. He knew that he could survive there.

But he did not want to just survive.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” He smiled sadly. “You didn’t tell her.”

“She would not leave without you. And she will want to return to France with you.” Treville couldn’t look him in the eye, “You must have disappeared before then. She must never know that this was the arrangement all along.”

Aramis said nothing. He turned away and headed back over to the door, without putting his hat back on. He could feel Treville’s eyes on the back of his skull.

“Forgive me. This is the last thing I wanted.” The Captain’s voice was weak with emotion.

As he passed through the door, he spoke over his shoulder.

“Sometimes God decides we can’t have what we want.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Musketeers stood inside the expansive halls of the Palais du Justice, awaiting the arrival of Rochefort. The cart that was transporting him from palace dungeon to courtroom had almost reached its destination, having had to navigate through the winding streets of Paris, and now was half an hour late. Aramis could hear Louis on the other side of the door, becoming agitated at the delay. Turning to his companions, he teased:

“Let’s hope he’s delayed another hour. Then maybe the King will just skip the trial, pass judgement and we can all go to lunch.”

He knew the others could tell he was putting on a brave face.

“This half an hour delay will be nothing compared to how long this trial is going to take. Rochefort has had _three whole days_ to prepare his defence. I wouldn’t be surprised if in that time he’d somehow managed to resurrect the Cardinal to defend him.” Athos drawled.

They all shared in a unanimous shudder at the thought.

The door opened and Constance slipped out, closing it quietly behind her.

“Are they here yet?”

“Not yet,” d’Artagnan answered, “He clearly wants to make an entrance.”

“Well I hope he’s not expectin’ a fanfare, because my trumpet playin’s a little rusty.” Porthos took the weight off of his feet by leaning against the gilded wall, but immediately stood to attention again as Treville rushed around the corner, hair windswept and out of breath. He approached the Musketeers and bent over, holding his side, gasping in large gulps of air.

“How…late…are…we…?” he wheezed.

“Well… let’s just say that the King’s not happy…” d’Artagnan reported.

Treville sighed.

“Those words will be written on my gravestone…” 

As the Captain entered the courtroom to announce their arrival, the sounds of a collection of footsteps came closer. Aramis felt his hand twitch towards his sword again and tried to shake any thoughts of reckless behaviour from his mind. This man may have the power to take everything I love from me, but killing him out here will just ensure that I have to leave France, he reasoned, steadying his breathing.

However, looking at the other’s he could see the same fire in their eyes. Porthos mindlessly fiddled with his musket. D’Artagnan had wrapped his arm around Constance, no doubt remembering how Rochefort had almost had her beheaded. Athos was gripping something pale blue in his pocket. A silk handkerchief, Aramis wondered disbelievingly, frowning with how uncharacteristic it seemed for the man who had worn the same worn-out hat for ten years?

It must be something of Milady’s, he realised.

A crowd of Red Guards appeared from around the corner, armour shining in the afternoon sun. Each man was armed to the teeth and had immaculate helmets atop their heads, a display of France’s strength, no doubt, for when they had passed through the streets. Aramis searched for Rochefort amongst them. No one was limping. No one was being forcefully shepherded towards them.

He couldn’t even hear chains.

“Where is he…?” he began, but his words were cut short.

The Comte was stood in the middle, not at all as he was three days previously.

He had regained the swagger in his walk, strutting alongside the guards as though he was walking to someone else’s trial. His hair was slicked back handsomely, face cleaned of blood, free from bruising and beard trimmed. His eyepatch had returned, hiding his scarring. He was dressed once again in his finery, leather doublet, new knee-high boots and fingers adorned with rings. Only his wrists were chained, but he did not struggle. Though his back could not have possibly healed in that short time, he made no show of it, not even flinching as he walked.

There was a victorious glint in his eye.

“Well, let’s hope he spent the past three days doin’ his hair and not preparing his defence…” Porthos snorted.

“Maybe he wants to look good when his head’s on a spike…” d’Artagnan grinned.

The group met the Musketeers at the door. Aramis glared at the prisoner, who returned his hatred in a single contemptuous glance. 

“Are there actually any other Musketeers, or are you the only four…?” Rochefort hissed.

He stood perfectly still as Porthos searched him for any hidden weapons, looking mildly agitated.

“Nothing.”

Rochefort raised his eyebrows.

“You thought I’d be armed?”

A smile crossed his face when Porthos did not respond.

“I’m no fool, Musketeer.”

He cast another glance at Aramis, a venomous stare, before stepping forward into the courtroom.

“Only an idiot threatens those who seek to destroy him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for all your support/kudos/reviews! My uni timetable is very empty for this next week, so the next chapter will probably be earlier than Sunday as well.
> 
> And oh boy, do I have a surprise lined up for you.
> 
> Now I shall return to crying over the new season 3 pictures.


	5. ROCHEFORT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rochefort's trial begins... as does his battle to avoid the gallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so it's nearly 1am but I don't care. After slaving away (but with frequent Tumblr breaks) over my university work, I have finally managed to churn this out! Apologies once again for the delay- thank you so much for being so patient! I only hope that it lives up to expectations!
> 
> I've actually started reading The Three Musketeers now. I've only read chapter 1, but it's SO GOOD at the moment (plus, it inspired a certain insult that Rochefort uses in this very chapter). And, naturally, I bought the copy with the BBC cover.
> 
> And how about that new casting for season 3? I will admit, I wasn't overly thrilled with the idea that Rupert Everett is going to be in it...but I felt the same about Marc Warren and well, you're reading my love letter to him now xD

The murderous look on Aramis’ face had given him immense satisfaction.

But, as he entered the courtroom, Rochefort could only focus on how beautiful Anne looked. She was sat at the King’s side, eyes cast down, hair piled neatly on her head with jewels threaded through it, and dressed in magnolia silk. The King’s hand rested gently on hers, a gesture that appeared to be comforting but was ultimately rather disinterested. He seemed far more preoccupied with turning his round face a bright scarlet shade, incensed at having been kept waiting.

_If she forgets the Musketeer, she will see you._

She can see me now, he rejoiced. 

My angel.

_She sees me._

There were twelve sat around the long rectangular table. The King and Queen occupied the central seats, Captain Treville hurriedly taking the chair on his Majesty’s left. The other faces were strangers, men of law and of the church, each dressed in black robes and brandishing sharply trimmed facial hair. Rochefort took each one of their faces in through his cold blue eyes. He had no doubt that they could easily be swayed by lies, manipulated to the point of appearing ludicrous. Their presence was ridiculous to him anyway.

Why should the church cast judgement upon me when God forsook me long ago? 

The faces to his right, a collection of witnesses who had come to give testimony, would never be influenced by his fabrications., no matter how convincing. They’d seen his deeds first hand. Constance Bonacieux, who cradled the dauphin, clearly desperate to bring him to justice over Lemay’s beheading. Vargas, who only wanted to save his own neck in the hope of returning to Spain. And four Musketeers, with various vendettas against him.

Tried to execute his mistress.

Tried to execute his friend.

Tried to execute his queen.

Tried to execute _him._

And each one was waiting for their chance to take a slice at his throat, to add a knot to his noose, to throw a handful of dirt into his undoubtedly pre-prepared grave. 

He stood in front of all them, flanked by guards on either side.

No chair, he noted.

Evidently, they expect this to be short.

“I do not appreciate being kept waiting.” Louis rebuked, resolve already weakening a little at the sight of the prisoner.

“My apologies, your Majesty,” the Comte drawled, bowing, “Your Musketeers choose to believe they are efficient in all respects, including timekeeping and navigation of the streets of Paris. Unfortunately, they lack the necessary skills to competently achieve anything besides managing to seduce married women, whilst still looking like the rear end of a Béarnais nag.”

Treville’s jaw clenched from the insult.

“I am well aware of my Musketeer’s shortcomings, Rochefort. And Captain Treville has been informed that punctuality is most important to his King and any lapse shall not be forgiven twice.”

“Indeed, Sire.” Treville yielded, not removing his unforgiving gaze from Rochefort.

“Now, let us get on with this horrid business. To straighten out any and all misdeeds. ” Louis gestured to his right, towards the man at the furthest end of the table, who stood grimly. “Monsieur Lévesque, will you please read the charges?”

The man was tall and lean, bearing a frame that was not dissimilar to the shape the Cardinal once held. However, his face was not wrinkled with time. He was around 30, with dark skin and wavy hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. His eyes were icy blue, startlingly so. They seemed to cast light across the room, as lightning does in the night sky. 

When he spoke, his voice was gruff and low.

“Comte de Rochefort. You stand before God and your King charged with treason of the highest form.”

He took a piece of parchment from the gentleman sat beside him and unrolled it. 

“These charges include, but are not limited to, the following. Conspiring against the French crown, as an agent of the Spanish King. The assault and attempted rape of her Majesty, Queen Anne of Austria. The attempt to unlawfully execute her Majesty, a task reserved only for those set down in the legally binding death warrant. The poisoning of his Majesty, King Louis XIII of France, through manipulation of the Lady Marguerite. The unauthorised execution of his Majesty’s chief physician, Lemay, without a formal trial.”

So they decided to pay attention to the adulteress’ whining after all, Rochefort sneered, as the list continued.

“The assassination of Perales, ambassador to Spain, in a conspiracy to fracture already unstable relations. The deceit and emotional manipulation of his Majesty, in an attempt to gain power. And the fabrication and spreading of slanderous lies concerning the dauphin’s legitimacy and her Majesty’s fidelity.”

Lévesque folded the parchment sharply and raised his eyes to stare intently at Rochefort, who suddenly felt shaken.

Those eyes… 

_I have seen them before._

“The penalty for a guilty verdict on any charge is death.”

After a brief pause, the man bowed to the king and took his seat again, movements fluid and swift. Rochefort could not fight the feeling that this was no ordinary lawman. He could not quite decide whether it was an overwhelming sense that he would be hard to deceive, to outwit, or whether his concerning familiarity would somehow prove to be a threat.

How could I possibly recognise him, he chastised? 

Focus on the matter at hand.

Think of Anne.

She is the reason why you fought then.

Why you fight now.

She was sat so silently, so demurely, but Rochefort imagined what lay under her gown, crushed under her corset and hidden under petticoats. Would she make a passionate lover? The unassuming ones are often better…and if Aramis is willing to die for her, she must be so… so… _irresistible._ He could not contain his hunger for the moment when she would finally give her body to him.

“Do you understand the charges, Rochefort?” Louis had noticed that the Comte’s eyes had glazed over slightly as he had become lost in his thoughts.

Rochefort nodded, returning to the room. 

“They are… painfully transparent, your Majesty. I only hope that I can convince you that they are lies, and nothing more.”

He heard Athos huff with disgust.

Louis looked grim.

“I very much hope so too. Bring forth the Bible, Archbishop.”

A large leather bound Bible was presented to him by a feeble old man, newly appointed, and Rochefort gingerly placed his hand on top of it. He wondered whether his skin would burn at the touch of it, the wrath of God answering the prayers of the faithful Aramis.

“By taking this solemn oath, you swear that you will withhold no truths and speak no lies, in sight of Almighty God, who will damn your immortal soul should you break this vow. Do you so swear?”

“I swear.” He announced through gritted teeth.

The elderly man leant in a little.

“The scaffold is a terrible place, sir… but Hell is unimaginable.” the Archbishop murmured, “Be cautious about what you say.” And he shuffled back to his seat, lugging the book in his arms.

I have already seen Hell, old man, the Comte replied silently. 

There is no torture Satan could inflict on me that compares to the sight of Anne in another’s arms.

“We will take a brief opening statement from the defendant and the victim, before advancing onto the witness’ cross examinations. His Majesty reserves the right to pass judgement at any time should he feel that the charges be proven true or false.” Lévesque explained.

Rochefort took very little comfort in that system, remembering the King’s history of temper tantrums and, quite frankly, stupid decisions.

“Will her Majesty please come before the court?”

The prisoner felt himself be pushed to the side of the room by the guards behind him, to make way for the queen. One of them boisterously grabbed his arm. Anne stood elegantly and proceeded to start the long walk around the table. A young servant rushed over with an ornate chair, but she refused it with smile and a gentle wave of her hand. As she reached the spot which Rochefort had occupied just moments before, she curtsied to her husband, bowing her head and observing all formalities. 

Rochefort stared at the porcelain skin on the back of her neck. How cold his garrotte must have felt against it. He was surprised that she hadn’t cracked and shattered, like the dolls she used to have back in Spain.

“I address this court,” she began, “not only as your queen, but as a victim of Rochefort’s crimes. He was once someone I considered to be a friend and a very dear one at that. But I have seen that his intentions were never honourable, that his attentions and affections towards me far exceeded those which are appropriate between queen and subject.”

Her voice wavered a little with her next words.

“Between student and tutor.”

There was a slight stir amongst the jury, who seemed shocked at this suggestion. Anne did not seem perturbed by this, instead continuing with poise and a sharp edge to her voice.

“This man has not only threatened my life, but those of my husband, your King, of my son, your future King, and of some of the most loyal patriots France has ever known.” She cast a glance at the witness box, “At least two innocent lives were cruelly taken as a consequence of his treachery. I urge you to not let any more be lost by his hand.”

Rochefort could see Aramis staring admirably at her.

“If France’s courts are truly committed to upholding justice, and if you wish to show Spain that invasion, even on the smallest scale, is unacceptable, then make an example of this traitor.”

She swivelled around to look directly at him for the first time since he had entered the room and he felt his stomach jump with anticipation. Her wrath made her even more beautiful.

“Show him no mercy. For he would show you none.”

Lévesque nodded graciously.

“What say you, Rochefort, in response?”

He yanked himself free from the guard’s firm grip and swanned into the centre of the room again, standing simply metres away from the queen. He saw her step away anxiously and heard concerned shuffling from where the Musketeers were sat. He took a moment to prepare himself, resting his weight on his right leg, leaning casually to one side, unaccustomed to not having his sword hanging by his left. The chains were starting to feel heavy around his wrists.

“I have been a servant of France for many years. I served his Eminence, the late Cardinal Richelieu before performing my duties at his Majesty’s side and I had every intention of doing so loyally and resolutely, until my last breath.”

The first lie.

It had come so easily, just as every lie before it had. He wondered if there had ever been a time when he had not so nonchalantly twisted the truth. 

If there was, he could not remember it.

“So you deny the charges?”

“Wholeheartedly. It deals me great insult to have my honour besmirched in such a way as accusations of treason.”

d’Artagnan guffawed from behind him. 

Rochefort shot a foul look over his shoulder and continued.

“When I entered into the Cardinal’s service, I swore an oath of fealty to him and to the crown. I upheld that promise even when I had been left to die, alone and desperate in a Spanish prison. Through every flogging, every branding, every torture that was inflicted upon me, I collected information that would be of use to your Majesty. As I proved upon my return to France, you will recollect.”

“That is so.” Louis confirmed to the other gentlemen, who noted it down on their papers.

“Bearing that in mind, I ask your Majesty to see reason. Why should a dedicated patriot such as myself see fit to abandon all sense of morality, all sense of duty, and spy for the Spanish King? A King who seeks to destroy the country I love?”

This had been well rehearsed, the words finely crafted and carefully selected. He stood, simply an actor, playing his audience for the fools they truly were.

And he hoped the final line would linger in Anne’s mind for years to come.

“To spy, one has to have nothing to live for. I can assure you Sire…”

He bowed his head and, for once in his deceitful life, spoke from his heart.

“I have everything to live for.”

There were a few moments of reverent silence. Louis’ usually joyful face screwed up in deep thought, as he considered the statements he had just witnessed. He tapped his fingers against the oak table, as if the first question to be asked was ingrained somewhere in the wood. Just as Rochefort was getting a little impatient, and was beginning to wonder if he should resume speaking, the King posed his first enquiry.

“If none of these charges are warranted…why is there such a collection of witnesses who state otherwise?”

The time had come sooner than he had anticipated. 

“Because, your Majesty…” He paused for dramatic effect, pretending to search for the strength to bring such terrible news, “…because I believe there to be a conspiracy afoot within court. A network of spies embedded so deeply within the palace that it only came to my attention when I was performing the Cardinal’s work in Spain.”

Muttering erupted around the room, doubts and denials.

“I do not understand…” Louis spoke weakly.

“My point is that I am no spy, your Majesty. But there are _many_ within the royal court.”

He trembled with the notion of what he was about to do.

“And… there is one who governs them all.”

“Name him!” Louis stood, chair scraping back along the floor with a painful screech, “If it is not you who is the spy, then unmask this traitor!”

Slowly, Rochefort turned to look at Aramis, who held a defiant expression on his face, bracing himself for this new accusation. So stupid, he thought. Musketeers really do defy all belief when it comes to how simple minded and self-obsessed they are. Merely brawn, all muscle and moustaches, with no brains to speak of. Three days to prepare and he sits there, ready to receive any blows that I could deal. Ready to die in shame for the sake of his animalistic lusts.

I hope he suffers, a thousand times more than I ever suffered in Spain, when he sees what he has done.

“I do believe that you already know their name quite well.”

The Comte looked back at the desperate king and pointed definitively with his shackled hands.

“Would you not agree, _Anne_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jazz hands*
> 
> Thanks so much for stopping by and reading! I hope you enjoyed it/weren't disappointed/don't want to throw me out of a window. 
> 
> I've broken my schedule of releasing chapters on Sunday, but all uni work is over now, so I'll probably start updating on Wednesdays or Thursdays!


	6. ANNE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's world spirals out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, like 5 days overdue! EUROVISION took over my life last week, as well as making a cosplay for London MCM Expo last Saturday, so writing this sort of took a back seat. Also, my laptop has packed up, so all in all, it took FOREVER TO GET DONE (and two re-writes because I couldn't get it how I wanted it!)
> 
> Is anyone watching Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell? Because Marc Warren is ruining my life once again.

Chaos ensued but Anne felt too numb to take it all in.

She’d just been accused of being a Spanish spy.

Accused of overseeing a clandestine network of agents within court.

Accused by a man, who in the eyes of her husband and the church, was under sacred oath.

“YOU BASTARD, YOU LYING BASTARD…!” Aramis had sprung, enraged, from his chair and was being restrained by Athos and Porthos. She’d never heard him swear before, even in the midst of battle. But now he was overcome with emotion, brow furrowed with fury, veins bulging in his neck, any traces of rationality that he had fading into the commotion.

Now is not the time to act rashly, she wanted whisper into his ear, held in his embrace.

My love, do not defend me now, for I could never defend you in such a way.

“REMOVE HIM FROM THE COURTROOM! I WILL NOT TOLERATE SUCH DISRUPTION!” Louis demanded, stamping his feet like a toddler, but no one was listening. The other gentlemen of the jury gossiped, yelled and debated, gesticulating wildly, not one of them paying their king any attention. Lévesque sat passively in his place, unnervingly still in the midst of such a riot. Those unique eyes were firmly fixated on Rochefort.

“…you cannot deny…”

“…ask the witnesses…”

“…RIDICULOUS…”

“…whoever deemed you fit to sit on the jury, sir, was…”

“…IT IS FOR HIS MAJESTY TO CONSIDER…”

“I suggest that we adjourn for the day and reassemble in the morning…” Treville was trying to suggest, but was drowned out. The kindly Captain caught Anne’s eye and she could see the sorrow in them. She thought of their rendezvous, where they had discussed the arrangements of her escape, the enormity of her decision still weighing heavily on her.

_“I have made my choice, Captain. And, no matter how great the cost…I must think first of my son and of France’s future. Arrange what you must. I will go.”_

Has that time come already, so soon into proceedings, she despaired?

Why, God, do you not strike Rochefort down where he stands for lying so blatantly?

“Aramis… I would advise you to sit down and silence yourself.” Athos was growling sternly, wrestling the man’s musket from its holster to remove it from reach.

“I CANNOT STAND BY WHILE…” Aramis bellowed, “WHILE HE DARES TO STAND THERE AND ACCUSE HER OF… _OF BEING LIKE HIM_ …”

“You are just making this worse… for God’s sake, just once in your life, _LISTEN TO ME_ …”

Anne could feel Rochefort staring at her, eyes empty of sanity.

He is a monster, she shuddered.

One from the deepest circle of Hell, with a tongue of silver and a heart of stone.

But be strong.

He cannot prove such an outrageous lie.

She lifted her chin and set her shoulders back, standing up to her full height, trying to ignore Rochefort’s hungry look. If she was to defend herself successfully, she knew that she would have to be steadfast, regal in every respect and and appear honest to a fault. She tried to calm her beating heart, but felt it bruising as it smashed continually into her ribcage. Her stomach flipped and rumbled- she had not eaten that day, or the evening before, for nerves had lined her insides and she could barely swallow. She folded her hands in front of her, trying to disguise the fact that they were trembling, and incredibly, managed to keep her voice steady as she projected over the growing noise.

“My lords…”

The gentlemen were only half listening to her, too engrossed in indulging their need to debate each other’s right to be seated at that table.

“My lords, the prisoner faces execution, a traitor’s death and no doubt dreads the prospect of it as a humiliating public spectacle. Surely the court must recognise that he will use any means necessary to avoid that fate? In spite of this, what the prisoner appears to have not considered..." She saw Rochefort incline his head slightly, apprehensive,"...is that a tactic of turning the accusations towards me unquestionably proves to you that he is guilty of one of the charges. That of inciting slanderous rumours about me. A charge which, as Monsieur Lévesque so eloquently made clear, also carries death as its penalty.”

The courtroom still did not fall silent, but she could see understanding beginning to show on the faces of those who had listened to her. Several noted down what she had said.

“To say that I am a spy is to claim that it is in my character to deceive, betray and manipulate. Any man who has born witness to my behaviour _since the moment my mother birthed me_ will be able to testify that this is simply not the case. That great number of witnesses include the prisoner, should he decide to abandon this farcical attempt at shifting blame and admit that he can no more prove my guilt than prove his innocence.”

“I have extensive proof of my claim, my lords, which I should be only too glad to divulge to the court.” Rochefort interjected, still not looking away from her.

“Proof…? What proof could _possibly_ exist to confirm what you say…?” One of the jurymen cried and the men gathered around the table began to yell again, at each other, at the Comte, at no one in particular. The dauphin began to cry loudly, screaming into Constance’s shoulder, while his father stood screaming for silence, voice straining in his throat and curly hair bouncing where he was bobbing up and down with impatience.

“…it is simply out of character…”

“…have been known to lie…”

"...extensive proof, he claims..."

“…execution certainly does strike fear into…”

“…I WILL SEE YOU HANG FOR THAT REMARK…”

Anne, seeing that addressing the jury was achieving nothing, turned forcefully to finally confront the prisoner. The noise of the courtroom suddenly seemed distant, fading into the background, like rain on the pages of a book, until it appeared that she and the man she despised most in the world were stood entirely alone.

“You cannot prove something that is not true.” 

Rochefort leant towards her and lowered his voice.

“Just as you cannot prove that the King is the dauphin’s father. Yet somehow you have convinced him that the little bastard is his.”

Anne could see Aramis over Rochefort’s shoulder. He had stopped shouting, and had been forced back into his seat by Porthos’ sturdy hand. He continued to mutter to the others in a harsh, hushed tone, though no specific words were audible. His face had a shadow cast over it, the ghost of something grim, the horror of the moment, and the prospect of something unbearable.

His face so often paints a picture of how he feels, the emotions of his heart so explicitly written across his eyes, his lips, and the line of his jaw, she thought, distracted momentarily.

I would endure a thousand years of Rochefort’s slander, if it meant that the accusatory finger was pointed away from him.

“Your lies will not save you, Rochefort.” She whispered, “If the executioner does not take your head, then there are many others who will.”

The Comte took a step closer to her, so he was almost next to her. He seemed to soften, as much as a man like him could, but it made Anne’s stomach churn. He had not spoken to her in this way since attacking her and he was daring to do it again now, at his own trial, under the watchful eyes of the jury. 

She looked for the guards, but they seemed too concerned with ensuring that Aramis was not going to cause any trouble. She looked to the King, but he had turned on Treville, who was dismally failing to calm him down. The Musketeers were arguing amongst each other and Constance was exhaustedly rocking the dauphin in her arms, his wailing causing deep lines to set in her brow. Vargas had clamped his hands over his ears and screwed his eyes shut tightly.

When she turned back, Rochefort was so close that she could feel his warm breath on her face.

“If lying is the only way to make you love me, then I will never speak the truth again.”

She felt a cold shiver overwhelm her. 

"Tell them the truth, Rochefort." She urged, "If there is any trace left of the man I once thought a friend, then tell the truth."

Perhaps reasoning with him will end this.

"I am sure that if you admit everything now, instead of telling more lies, the King will be merciful..."

Rochefort smiled, almost laughed.

"Now who is the liar?"

Anne looked away ashamedly.

"You know as well as I do. The moment I confess, I die."

His hand slightly reached for hers, but pulled back almost immediately, aware that eyes could still be watching.

"And I will not die before I hear you say it."

He is so desperately lonely, she thought.

And he deserves to die that way too.

“Please… tell me you love me… 

“No…”

“Anne, listen to me …Anne...” She hated the sound of her name on his tongue.

“No…I will not…I will never…”

“Love me…"

He looked pained at having to bargain with her.

"...and I will leave the Musketeer out of my testimony.”

The words ripped her lungs from her body, twisted the air from them and shoved them back down her throat. They echoed rapidly in her memory, over and over and over again. I thought that he could burrow no further into my mind, she anguished. But he has latched into it, like a lustful parasite, and drains me completely of hope, of life, of passion, of sanity. Why must he so easily see my weaknesses? Why must he so easily manipulate me?

_What sins have I committed to deserve this?_

Her head span. She felt sick, dizzy, as if the ground was falling away from her. Her empty stomach hurt. It was so noisy. She could not concentrate, could barely even consider the choice presented to her. She did not want to consider it. She could hear her son crying, Constance’s soothing unable to calm him.

I have to get out of here, to think, to plan… I cannot be here any longer…

“…surely we must consider…”

“…IT CANNOT BE…”

“…God often presents such…”

_Oh merciful Lord in Heaven..._

“…Aramis, think how this looks…”

“…have mercy on their souls…”

“…IGNORANT FOOL…”

_...in the name of all that is good, I ask you..._

“…YES…”

“…WOMAN, REMOVE THAT INFANT…”

“…MERCIFUL HEAVEN, PLEASE STOP…”

_WHAT SINS HAVE I COMMITTED TO DESERVE THIS?_

“SILENCE!”

A deathly quiet fell in a matter of seconds, half finished sentences lingering in the air. 

Louis, having become tired of not being the centre of attention, had discarded his dignity and stood on his chair to screech this order.

“THE NEXT MAN WHO SPEAKS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION WILL HANG.” 

To see her husband towering above her broke Anne out of her thoughts, and she realised that Rochefort had retreated, ready to resume his façade. The dauphin was merely gargling now, and Aramis had reclaimed his musket, although Athos seemed to be concealing the ammunition inside his doublet. It was as if the disruption had never happened. As though an angel had grasped the tongues of every man present and cleansed them of their vices; the prisoner's lustful muttering, the jury's envious arguing and Aramis' wrathful whispering. 

“You all dare to speak over me? _I am the King!_ This is _my_ courtroom! And I will not stand for such a lack of respect!” he cried, as everyone looked at the floor, hoping they could avoid the brunt of his rage.

“To not respect your King is treason. _TRAITORS HANG_.”

Nobody was under the illusion that the petulant leader would not be true to his word and nobody wanted to end this troubled day at the end of a rope.

It was so silent, it was as if a plague had wiped the life from the room.

The King slumped back into his seat and massaged his brow.

Panting heavily, face practically twitching with fury, he looked at Rochefort.

“Now…” There was a poisonous edge to his voice, “Rochefort… your King commands you... explain your disgusting accusation against my queen… concisely… and… convincingly… or _I WILL HAVE YOU SHOT. WHERE. YOU. STAND._ ” 

A soft click of a musket being cocked ensured the prisoner knew the threat was genuine.

Anne felt her head clouding, fatigue washing over her, Rochefort's words still ringing in her ears.

I need to talk to Aramis…to Treville…

I need to stop this trial.

“Your Majesty, I have been corroborating the evidence for this claim for several months now…” Rochefort was saying, voice weakened a little with the knowledge that a musket was aimed at his head, but Anne’s vision was filling with white light. It was an odd sensation, one which she had never experienced before.

Strangely, she was glad she had not eaten.

"...once I explain how... discover... treachery..."

Perhaps I shall faint and delay the proceedings…

"...you... where...loyalty truly lies..."

Perhaps I shall faint…

Perhaps…

Perhaps...

Perhaps I _must_ faint.

“LOOK TO THE QUEEN!” The new Archbishop interrupted, and Anne felt the air be knocked from her as she hit the ground. The pain that came with colliding into a wooden floor was bearable, for she knew that she would soon be back at the palace, away from this awful place, from this man who tortured her mind. There, she would be able to carefully consider her counter manoeuvres, with her faithful Musketeers at her side. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the tingling where she had knocked her elbow and the aching where she had landed with her legs resting at uncomfortable angles. She could feel her muscles twitching with the desire to relax, to shift and ease their straining, but resisted the temptation. 

Her crown fell from her head, rolled across the floor and stopped at Rochefort’s feet.

The Comte momentarily looked shocked, but a knowing smile soon played on his lips, knowing that he had to concede the first victory to his worthy opponent.

She was certainly not unconscious, but the world still seemed muffled.

Slow.

Distant. 

Like she was sinking into treacle.

"Your Majesty...? Your Majesty...?" a voice called.

She was being cradled in someone’s arms, but she could not tell whose arms they were.

How strange it feels to be deceiving those I wish to prove myself honest to, she thought sluggishly.

"The queen is not well. She needs a doctor immediately." Lévesque's unmistakably unconvinced tone sounded.

I must keep my eyes closed...

If I fall asleep, it will only add to the illusion.

If I dream, I hope to dream of the life I long for.

The child that I live for and the Musketeer I would die for.

“Take the queen back to the palace. We will resume when she is in good health again.” Someone said and Anne felt herself be lifted into the air. The figure carrying her was strong and gentle, easily holding her as though she was made of nothing but air. Somebody had retrieved her crown and loosely set it upon her head again.

Every step away from Rochefort, away from the trial, seemed to ease the pressure in her temples.

“Women…” came another voice, as she seemed to be nearing the door.

“…courtrooms are not the place…. 

“…they simply do not understand the law… too much pressure… makes them swoon….” 

“…countless times before…”

“…’tis a pity that the queen should be no different to ordinary women in this sense…”

...'tis a shame that the queen is so weak, and lacks the shrewdness of our noble King...

The man carrying her gave a low chuckle and she tentatively opened her eyes to see Porthos grinning down at her. Constance and d’Artagnan were following behind him, also both grinning.

As they left the courtroom, closed the door behind them and began to make the journey to the royal carriage, Porthos began to quietly laugh.

It was joyful laugh that filled Anne with a hope she had not dreamed she would experience in these dark hours.

And a hope that she dreaded she would never feel again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> ALSO I FORGOT TO MENTION I AM MEETING ALEXANDRA DOWLING AND RYAN GAGE DRESSED AS ROCHEFORT IN LIKE TWO WEEKS TIME AND I AM BOTH INSANELY EXCITED AND DREADING IT.


	7. ROCHEFORT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men, with hauntingly blue eyes, confront each other about the past they shared and the future they face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS DESCRIPTIONS OF TORTURE. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
> 
> This is a LONG one, the longest one yet. It wasn't meant to be this long, but somehow, it ended up like this xD And there is also lots of italics... I wanted to really capture the sass and sarcasm of the conversation.
> 
> Something just happened with this chapter and I'm not entirely sure what. It took me ages to feel happy with it, I'm not even sure if I'm happy with it _now_ and I just...ugh. Like, I knew what it was going to be about before I started writing it (which surprisingly doesn't always happen), but I just struggled. I normally get to a point where it _feels_ right and this one just hasn't got there yet...

“I know your face, Monsieur.”

Rochefort sat facing the hooded man, who was swathed in a thick black cloak, rocking gently from side to side as the carriage rolled through cobbled streets. 

After the King had charged after his conniving queen, panicked at the thought that she may be gravely ill, and all accusations of treason momentarily forgotten, Rochefort had been marched back, in venomous silence, to the cart he’d arrived in by the remaining Musketeers. He’d spent each step wondering whether one of them would quietly drive a dagger into his back. Or whether they’d just lynch him from the nearest tree, a reflection on their first meeting, just to let him die with a cruel sense of irony. 

_The only irony here, Anne, my love, is that you cannot see how similar we truly are._

They had restrained themselves of course. This performance had rules that bound them, choked them, oh so many more laws and conditions than he had. God’s laws. The King’s laws. The Musketeer’s code.

I am bound only to myself, he had decided.

_Too long have I been a slave._

The inside of the cart was dark, lit only by three shafts of light that passed through the barred window. It smelt of dust and urine. No doubt, he thought, disgusted, from countless others who have fallen out of favour with the King, pathetic wretches who had decided that being on trial simply wasn’t humiliating enough and that pissing themselves was the only way to counteract that.

The door was sealed shut with an impenetrable iron padlock. A dozen Red Guards and Captain Treville surrounded it, armed as if they were about to invade Spain, preventing curious civilians from getting too close and preventing any chance of an escape.

And yet, somehow, the sinister silhouette had managed to slip inside.

“I know that I did not dream of you.”

The man’s blue eyes could never have been so exquisitely imagined under darkness of sleep. 

“My dreams have a disappointing habit of always being less than prophetic,” Rochefort mumbled bitterly, resting his head against the wall behind him, “And yet you sit here. Flesh and blood, in that ridiculous cloak. And so I know you cannot be a hallucination. If you were, then yours would _certainly_ not be the face I would choose to go mad by.”

The figure did not respond. 

“Tell me. Are you another of the Cardinal’s lapdogs?”

No answer.

“Or the ghost of a man I once killed, come to seek vengeance against me?”

The man reached up slowly and pulled back his hood, exposing his face entirely. He moved with the same bored quality that he had used in the courtroom, fingers lazily drawing back the fabric, shoulders slumped a little, facial features set in their default unimpressed state. From his sleeve, he produced a little dagger, which appeared so fragile that it seemed it could break if dropped.

Lévesque.

 _“Soy ningún fantasma, señor.”_

Rochefort felt his heart stop, but was careful not to react.

“You are Spanish…?” he murmured, trying to mask his nerves with curiosity.

“Yes. A son of Madrid. Although I make a very convincing Frenchman, don’t you think?” He twirled the blade in his fingers absent-mindedly. The Comte wondered if he should call out for the guards, and end the conversation before it really began, but something told him that a member of the jury being found speaking to him so intimately, and in Spanish for that matter, would not support his plea of innocence.

“How did a Spaniard manage to weasel his way into the King’s court without being detected?”

Lévesque smirked slightly.

“An honest man believes others to be as honest as he is.”

Rochefort stopped breathing.

_Those words…_

“So tell me… who do you think I am now?”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
_Rochefort no longer knew if he was screaming._

_Somebody was._

_A hollow, inhuman sound._

_For six days, naked as a howling infant, he had been chained to a post. He’d long given up on trying to move his arms, gradually letting an excruciating numbness wash over them. The wooden stool he perched on had splinted into his bare buttocks, large shards of wood protruding out of the soft flesh, and infection was most likely imminent. His legs were outstretched in front of him, encased in an iron contraption he’d heard the jailors call ‘the boot’. The tips of the rusty spikes that lined the inside were merely perched on his skin, only causing him pain if he shifted too much._

_He knew that would soon change._

_He had no clue how long he had been in the prison. He’d originally been confined to some sparsely decorated quarters, treatment befitting a man of his title, but that had lasted eight months at best. During that time, he’d had no word from Cardinal Richelieu, no contact at all with anyone from outside the gaol, except a priest who had come weekly to pray with him and who was, much to Rochefort’s chagrin, unfalteringly loyal to Spain._

_When the Spanish had realised that civility and diplomacy would not get him to share French secrets, the pleasantries had been dispensed with._

_They’d started with starvation and dehydration._

_He’d known the feeling before, on one of his most covert escapades._

_He captured the rats that skulked in his cell to eat._

_He drank his own urine._

_Next came the Cat o’ Nine Tails, which had stripped away the skin on his back and shoulders. When his old wounds had begun to heal, they would open them up again with another fifty lashes. He had tried to imagine that the warm liquid oozing down his back was from a fresh pail of water, rather than from his weakening veins._

_He had laughed as a doctor appeared, to wash, bleed and bandage him, to ensure that he did not die of infected injuries before they extracted their desired information._

_Now, as the door swung upon, a man wearing a scarf over his face entered, with an armful of wooden wedges and a mallet._

_A man with eyes the colour of the sky._

_“The Comte de Rochefort?” He asked, feigning ignorance._

_Rochefort, who had not slept for three days, could not answer._

_“It is rude not to reply.” The man drawled, bored. “Aren’t you French nobles taught any manners? Like how to dress modestly?” He came to a stop in front of the nude prisoner and half-heartedly laughed at his own joke. He let his arms drop and the wood went crashing to the floor. Rochefort started at the noise._

_“No need to worry, señor. I need not use these if you are willing to tell me what I want to know.”_

_He crouched down, not bothered by the fact that he was kneeling in a puddle of faeces, and lifted the Comte’s head so he was looking directly at him._

_“Now. You cannot be the only one of Richelieu’s agents in Spain. I want to know their identities, the locations of their safehouses and how much value the dear Cardinal places on each of their lives.”_

_He received no response._

_“No? Nothing?”_

_Silence reverberated through the cell._

_“You do not wish to say anything?”_

_Rochefort spat in his face._

_The blue-eyed man wiped it aside indifferently. Then, he reached for one of the wedges and balanced it between the prisoner’s knees. The captive gritted his teeth, hoping that he would not bite his tongue and choke to death on it._

_The torturer struck it with the mallet._

_The wood firmly lodged itself into the contraption and Rochefort felt his legs be pulled further apart, the spikes on the inside beginning to drive themselves into the soft tissue of his calf muscles. He did not cry out, but chewed down on his lower lip and screwed up his eyes in pain._

_“Their names, if you please.”_

_When he gave no response, another wedge was placed between his legs, and heavy smash with the hammer drove it down deeper than the first. The teeth of the boot bit ravenously into his flesh now, and Rochefort could not help but scream._

_The torturer adjusted his gloves._

_“Well, at least your mouth is open now.”_

_Rochefort felt blood drooling from his gaping lips._

_“I…am…the…only one…” he rasped, as he had done so many times before._

_“Do not lie.”_

_“I…am…not lying…”_

_The blue-eyed man stood and kicked at the ‘boot’ and a wail like a strangled cat escaped the Comte’s throat._

_“An honest man…” He reached down and picked up another wedge, “believes others to be as honest as he is. And a liar knows when another man is lying to him.”_

_The third wedge was hammered between man and iron, and Rochefort could feel the spikes penetrate so severely that they were grinding against bone._

_“God knows, I have not a single shred of honesty in me.”_

_A fourth wedge was prepared._

_Think of her, the prisoner thought weakly._

_Think of **her…**_

_Imagine her face…_

_“And neither, I think, do you.”_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Rochefort felt sick to his stomach.

“Why… _why are you here_?” he croaked, scratching at his wrists where the chains were beginning to chafe, the memory of such tortures making his muscles stiffen with fear. The mysterious visitor grinned as he noticed the recognition dawn on the Comte’s face.

“The Spanish King believes you to be a liability. Normally he would just leave you to your fate, but men like you often tend to possess information that you should not possess at all. Information that can be traded to avoid imprisonment. Torture.”

Rochefort refused to look away from this nightmarish apparition, that he had hoped long dead. 

“Or, in your case, execution.”

The prisoner dug his blunt nails into his palm and set his jaw.

“Is there anyone in this world who does not want me dead?”

The visitor smiled a little.

“It is not personal, señor. Nothing I have ever done to you was personal.” 

Rochefort very much doubted that. There was not one inch of him that his man had not subjected to the most desperate agony, not one secret he had prized from him gathered without shattered bone, dried crusts of blood, sharp metal probing flesh and a sadistic smile plastered across his face. It may not have originally been personal, but the victim had felt the man’s duty evolve into pleasure. He’d heard his torturer rolling the name ‘Rochefort’ around on his tongue, endlessly, as though it were a psalm. He’d seen the eager glint in his eyes.

Those eyes that seemed to be made of ice.

“I take it then your name is not Lévesque?”

The Spaniard snorted quietly.

“That? I chose it randomly from a French newspaper. Something about human trafficking, I think. Ismael Durante is the name I gave myself when I entered the King’s service. It means ‘God hears the stubborn’.”

“How poetic.” Rochefort sneered, trying to regain some courage.

Durante’s glare intensified at the snide remark, but he did not make a move with his weapon. 

“I chose it because the stubborn, the men who resist and stay silent, are generally the ones who die first. The weak tend to survive by adapting.”

He smirked.

“Rather like yourself. For a man who is a spy by trade, and trained to hold your tongue under immense pain, you gave in laughably quickly.”

Rochefort felt his pride take a hit, anger flushing in his cheeks. It was one thing to jest about his current misfortunes, but to make a mockery of his suffering, his torment in that hellhole, was to undermine his very being, his soul. I was forged in that prison, he thought, like a blacksmith forges a sword, reshaped from Richelieu’s obedient pawn into a man who bows to no-one. 

_And I certainly have never bowed to Spanish pigs._

“I endured your tortures for _five years_ …” he hissed angrily.

“I’ve seen men hold out for ten. Even twenty.”

Perhaps, Rochefort agreed silently, but twenty years is a lifetime for some… 

_I was not so willing to give my life._

“Well, Monsieur, let me be the _first_ to apologise for being so _disappointing_...”

Durante idly plunged the dagger into the seat beside him.

“I was not as disappointed as you were, I imagine, when the Cardinal did not pay your ransom… tell me, how did it feel to be so _insignificant_ …”

Rochefort wanted to tear the man’s eyes from their sockets and shove them down his throat.

“I may have been easily forsaken once,” he growled, “but that man is dead. The _Cardinal_ is dead. Since my return from exile, I have grown in wealth, in influence and in power. I am _anything_ but insignificant…”

“Ah yes,” Durante scoffed, “Your _foolproof_ scheme for gaining power. To return to France and climb into bed with the queen.”

The Comte felt a stirring between his legs at the very thought of it.

“I remember you used to moan in your sleep about her, about all the things you’d do to her, so frequently that I half imagined her to be a submissive little whore…how pleased I was to discover that _you_ are in fact the whore…”

Rochefort, usually so restrained, lunged forward, but was held back by the chains securing him to the floor. He went thudding back into his seat, chest heaving with rage, madness glinting in his eyes. The sudden movement had made his back twinge with pain again, reminding him that while he may have regained his fine clothes and leather boots, his body was still scarred and torn beneath the fabric.

 _“YOU HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING OF WHY I SOLD MYSELF TO YOU.”_ he spat in a harsh whisper, _“OF HOW IT FEELS TO HAVE NO CLAIM OVER YOUR OWN SOUL_ …to…to….” 

His rage faded a little, as a stormy ocean lulls between waves.

“To know that you cannot give another what is not yours.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Rochefort could see the rooftops of the Musketeer’s garrison out of the window. There was, perhaps, another ten minutes left of his journey. Rain was starting to fall, battering on the wooden carriage with vexing frequency. The wind made the timber’s creak.

His thoughts briefly wandered to Anne, as they so often did.

Durante began to remove his gloves with menacingly steady hands.

“You are incapable of love, Rochefort.”

The Comte was pulled out of his imaginings and back into reality.

“What you feel for the queen is nothing more than a futile desire. And it has led to your destruction.”

He drew out another blade and began using it to sharpen the edges of his weapon of choice. Rochefort watched the sparks fly from them as they collided. Each impact produced a painful screech, a scraping sound as though he was whittling down bone. The assassin was timing each one with the clattering of the wheels on the road, so that it would sound like loose nails to the guards outside.

I must somehow change his mind, Rochefort thought, trying not to panic. All men can be bought for a price. The trick is to decipher each individual’s need. I sold myself for survival. For love.

_What does this man want?_

Looking at Durante, it was obvious that a monetary bribe was out of the question; the leather gloves on the seat beside him were new and he flaunted several jewels on his fingers. There would be no point in threatening him. Being weaponless and chained did not provide a single advantage.

The Spaniard had finished preparing his weapon and returned to stillness.

“Do you recall, in Spain, that no one ever called me Durante? They called me ‘ _el Padre_ ’. ‘The Father’.” 

He paused for effect.

“Why do you think they used to call me that?”

“Is it your insistence on playing God?” Rochefort muttered.

Durante reached a hand forward and rested it on Rochefort’s cheek.

The Comte flinched, startled at his touch, unable to suppress the angry tears, the _frightened_ tears, suddenly appearing in his eyes.

_Am I to die here, at the mercy of this phantom, after all I have seen and done?_

“It is because I am the father to so many _reborn_ men. Men who forsake their past _lives_ , past _personalities_ , past _allegiances_. Men who are willing to die for Spain. I broke you. I _created you_. I pulled your sanity from you, stuffed my own mind into you, just as I did for so many others. I made you believe you have always been this way.”

You are no ‘father’ of mine, Rochefort began to curse.

But inspiration struck him.

The cart came to an abrupt stop and Treville could be heard loudly issuing orders for the prisoner’s return to his cell. Durante glanced at the door, measuring how much longer they had together. Rochefort was uncomfortably aware that the assassin’s window of opportunity was closing.

“And now I will destroy you. As is a father’s right.”

He moved until he was merely inches away, produced the dagger and held it at Rochefort’s throat, the edge slowly causing little spots of blood to appear. The Comte was obviously trembling, unable to escape, just as he had been unable to escape for all those years. 

Every word counts, he knew.

And he will know if I lie.

Rochefort stared deeply into his old adversary’s eyes, with a ferocity that he summoned from the memory of all of those years of suffering.

“I have always been broken.”

Durante looked surprised.

“My _true_ father broke me when I was a child. The only thing you managed to succeed in doing to me, in all those years of torture and pain and humiliation…”

Rochefort swallowed.

“… Was to help me to see just what a _wonderful_ father he was.”

Durante froze.

“You, _el Padre_ , have not seen what I have prepared for the court. You know nothing, of how I intend to save myself the embarrassment of a public execution. And should you slit my throat now, you will never see just how your, so-called, ‘ _reborn son_ ’ will bring France to its knees with a few carefully considered lies.”

“I do not care about…”

“You may not care, but I am certain that the Spanish King will be most displeased with you, should he discover you denied me the chance to finish my original task.”

The assassin looked unconvinced.

“Give me time to show you that I am still of value.”

“There is no point…”

“But why not allow yourself the chance to claim this as _your legacy?_ ”

The pressure on the blade relaxed a little.

“To claim it was _your creation_ that burnt France to ashes? That removed that snivelling _child_ from the throne? It would be a lie to claim that I was broken by you, Monsieur. But…”

Rochefort lowered his voice to whisper in the other man’s ear.

“ _God knows, I have not a single shred of honesty in me. And neither, I think, do you._ ”

Durante seemed to pause for a moment, as though considering something, before beginning to chuckle. It was a low, growling sound, resonating through his broad chest and in his throat, like organ music in the cloisters of a cathedral. Quickly, he sheathed his knife and Rochefort could not help but sigh with relief.

“I like you, señor. You are by far the most intriguing man I have ever tortured.”

He pulled his hood back over his head.

Rochefort could feel his heart thudding.

“I will give you three days.” He spoke as he put his gloves back on, “To prove to me in court that your allegations against the queen can still somehow lead to Louis and France’s downfall. Three days to convince me that you are still worth anything to Spain. To me.”

The door was being unlocked, the rattling of keys a signal of the meeting’s end.

“If I am not convinced, I will kill you.”

The assassin stood to leave. The Comte wondered how he would manage to exit unnoticed by Treville, who no doubt would be barging in at any second. But oddly, the man did not leave immediately. Instead, Durante reached into his coat pocket and tossed its solitary occupant to Rochefort.

A blue glove.

“This belongs, I believe, to _la dama de invierno_. Another risk to Spanish secrets. Another prisoner of mine, taken on route to England.”

There was a slip of parchment slotted inside, bearing an address in Paris.

Durante bowed, before turning to leave.

“I look forward to seeing how creative you can be with her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it, well, as much as reading about torture can be enjoyed! Apologies that it is quite late, I've had a week and a bit full of mixed emotions and other things to be getting on with. :)
> 
> On the plus side, I successfully auditioned for a film that is shooting later this month, called 'Lioness!', which I'm really excited about! On the negative side, Alexandra Dowling moved which day she was appearing at the convention and now I can no longer meet her, so I'm gutted about that... I'm hoping that Ryan Gage doesn't change day/cancel as well :'( At least my cosplay is nearly done... I'll maybe post a picture once I've finished sewing the sleeves of the coat!


	8. WE INTERRUPT OUR USUAL STORY FOR THESE COSPLAY PHOTOS...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The REAL chapter 8 will be up hopefully at some point in the next week! In the meantime, here are the results of a week of non-stop sewing!

Hey guys! So, chapter 8 (another 'ARAMIS') is currently in progress but this past week has been solely dedicated to painstakingly hand sewing my Rochefort cosplay, which I wore when meeting Ryan Gage at a con on Sunday! Had an AMAZING day and he was so lovely! I asked him for Season 3 spoilers and he laughed and said he couldn't tell me anything, BUT did say that he thinks it will be even better than season 2! Plus I had a hug!

So while I try to catch up with writing, here are some photos!

Here is a photo of my twin sister and I as Rochefort and Constance!

 

Just a couple of me, lounging around, looking evil...

  
   


And here is us with Ryan!

 

I may delete this once the proper chapter 8 goes up (I feel a bit bad saying that it's 'updated' when it actually isn't...), but I'll leave it up here for now! :D Thank you for your patience!

UPDATE OF THE UPDATE  
I HAVE JUST FOUND OUT THAT TOM BURKE AND MAIMIE MCCOY ARE GOING TO THE OTHER CON I'M GOING TO THIS SUMMER OMG


	9. ARAMIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead are so easily forgotten. But Aramis and Constance remember their fallen friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **SOME SAD MUSIC TO LISTEN TO WHILE READING** : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVVXH6nBCaA
> 
> Hey guys! Chapter 8 (well, uh, Chapter 9 now, I guess...) is FINALLY here! It's more of an emotional fluff chapter. I thought it would be nice to have a break from INSERT DRAMATIC PLOT TWIST HERE and INSERT SHOCKING REVELATION HERE and instead just take a moment to breathe. And I love the Aramis/Constance friendship and so wanted to get some in! If you want, I've put the music I wrote to at the top, so you can listen to it while reading! :D
> 
>  **Translation note** : felo-de-se is an old Latin term meaning 'felon of himself' and was used for referencing someone who committed suicide. 
> 
> **Historical note** : The Cimetiere des Saint-Innocents was a real mass grave site in the centre of Paris. However, it was closed in 1780, d/bue to such overcrowding that bodies no longer decomposed properly, and the remains moved to Catacombs, which is just outside of Montparnasse. The church there was destroyed in 1787 and replaced with a market square.

The Cimetière des Saints-Innocents at sunset was a harrowing place. 

The silhouette of the Church of the Holy Innocents cast shadows across the courtyard, stained glass windows dark and bell tower tuneless, as it stood looming over the decomposing Parisians and nameless strangers it had been charged with guarding. The air was crisp and smelt of death, the wind whistling through the cloisters sounding, to Aramis’ ears, like a woman wailing. Every step he had taken across the ground had reminded him of the centuries of bones, residue fat, maggot-infested flesh and forgotten lives that rested beneath his feet.

Marguerite was somewhere among them.

He knew that he would never forget the look she had as she’d testified against him. The misery set in her face as she succumbed to Rochefort’s threats and to her own grief. The grey streaks that had appeared in her hair, far too premature for a woman so young. The lines around her eyes that held the same hopelessness as an elderly beggar standing before Death.

He knew that he would never forgive himself for using her so cruelly.

He was sat leaning against a stone monument in the centre of the cemetery. His hat rested obediently beside him. This was not the first time he had visited the mass grave and he had sworn that it would not be the last. He hated every moment he spent there, but he knew he had to stay.

I owe her that much, he wept.

And I will return to this place, to sit at the foot of this stone, to pray and remember this lonely woman, no matter where God decides I must go. Even if I am doomed to live away from France, without Anne and to watch my son grow up from afar, or even if, by some impossible miracle, we can love each other freely, I will return.

_I must never leave this place to the mercy of time and poor memory._

“Aramis…?”

The gentle voice startled him. Jolting his head up, his gaze fell upon the sombre figure of Constance, head guarded from the cold by a delicate scarf and a shawl draped across her shoulders. She held a small handful of wild flowers. Their petals were a shade of lilac that seemed odd in such a colourless place.

“Constance…”

He could see his breath as he spoke.

“What are you doing here?” She approached, worriedly, “You look freezing… how long have you been sat like this?”

Aramis shrugged, shaking his head.

“A couple of hours, I think. I counted seven tolls of the bell at the last turn of the hour.”

He tried to sound pleasant, but his words, stiffened by several hours silence, sounded melancholy and tired. Constance’s brow furrowed a little with concern.

“Where is your coat?”

Aramis gestured vaguely.

“There was a young man here earlier, asleep on the ground, wearing only a shirt…” His eyes clouded over, reminiscing, “I think he’d been here for several days… I gave it to him.”

With that gentle firmness that made the Musketeer realise what a wonderful mother she may one day make, Constance moved to kneel beside him. Tenderly, she removed her shawl, exposing her skin to the chilly air, and wrapped it around him. He went to protest, but she gave him a stern look.

“Now is not the time to be chivalrous, Aramis.”

She spread her skirts out around her and sat with him at the foot of the monument.

The darkness had nearly fully settled. The moon was large and low in the sky, and an unusual red colour, as though God had severed the head of a giant and held it aloft. Aramis wondered if it bore some significance, but he knew of no-one who would be able to answer such a question. Instead, he was left to ponder its immense mystery, side by side with his compassionate friend.

Constance twirled the stems of the flowers between her fingers.

“I’ve just come from the palace,” she murmured.

He started.

He had forgotten. 

_The Queen… she summoned a council, to discuss today’s events. Those who she could trust. Athos, Porthos, d’Artagnan, Treville, Constance._

_And Aramis._

Aramis looked down at his muddied boots, knowingly.

“You were the only one who didn’t answer her call.”

A sad smile crossed his face.

“The Captain thinks it best if I keep my distance during the proceedings. Athos too. They seem to be under the impression that I’ll do something reckless again.”

He did not raise his head to look at her again, simply staring at the dirt, hair falling across his eyes. He wondered if he would cry again, or whether his tear ducts had finally dried up, the last salty droplets now restrained by acceptance and numbness. He momentarily gripped Anne’s crucifix, which still hung around his neck.

“So I came here.”

“I see… It really is a beautiful place… even when you consider what’s beneath your feet. Peaceful. ” Constance breathed, taking it all in, grey eyes large in the red moonlight. “Perfect for praying, I imagine.”

“Perhaps. But… I came to sit with her.”

“With who…?”

He rested his hand on the dirt below him.

Realisation dawned on her face.

“Marguerite…?”

He nodded.

His voice shook when he spoke.

“The King branded her a traitor. And the church branded her a _felo-de-se_.” Aramis whispered, “They wanted to put her in an unmarked grave, away from consecrated ground. But Treville told me that her parents made a plea to the Queen. They knew she would be more generous. More understanding. More willing to listen.” 

His hand became a fist, clutching at the soil.

“She persuaded the King to allow a church burial. But that’s all he would permit. It was still one where she was tossed on a heap. With strangers and criminals. Still unmarked.”

He flung the handful of filth away angrily, watching the dust from it be blown away.

“Still to be forgotten.”

He stared down at his now dirty palms.

“She deserved better than this, no matter what she did.”

Loud voices, laughter, echoed from over the cemetery walls, the population of Paris slowly making their way to taverns and brothels, ready to drink, gamble and seduce until the dawn. A dog barked loudly. Horses whinnied and trotted by. Aramis wished that for a moment, the world could fall silent. As quiet as if they were buried under the ground too. So quiet, that he would never have the opportunity to forget her face. Her voice. The way she moved. The way she had cried.

“It wasn’t your fault, Aramis.”

“It was.” He softly cried, “It was. I tore out her heart and I handed it to Rochefort.”

Madame Bonacieux made no argument against his confession. Instead, she rested a hand on his arm. He continued, spitting out the words.

“Athos, Porthos, D’Artagnan. They know it’s my fault. They’d never say it. But they’re thinking it.” His stomach twisted with the lack of faith in his friends, a lack of trust that he’d never experienced before, never imagined he’d feel. Have I become so consumed with my own guilt that I will trust no-one? An honest man believes others to be as honest as he is. I am a liar and God knows it. Is this why I believe my friends to lie about their judgement of me?

“Even _she_ blames me.”

A soft hand cupped his cheek and turned his head, so he met her gaze.

“You know that’s not true.”

“I… I just wanted to be close to my son.” He sobbed.

“And you will be. Someday. But for now, you must wait. Wait with the ones who are ready to stand with you. To die for you.”

He felt a lump in his throat, his helplessness engulfing his voice box.

“They love you. All of them. You can doubt your own guiltlessness, Heaven knows I doubt mine too, but do not doubt your brothers’ loyalty. And do not doubt her heart.”

He absorbed her words for a few moments, before tilting his head, confusedly.

“You doubt your innocence? You are the most guiltless woman I know.”

Something like shame crossed her face, as she regretted her words.

“No… it’s not important… I shouldn’t have said…”

“Constance…”

Constance slowly removed her hand from his cheek. She sat back, curled up, hugging her knees to her chest. Her breast rose and fell shudderingly, not with cold, but with the memory that haunted her most. Aramis could see her eyes moving slightly, as though she was witnessing something that he could not see.

“I only meant… I have committed such a terrible sin... so terrible that I will never forgive myself.”

Aramis froze, watching her face contort with heartbreak.

“I lost him.”

Her grip on the stems strengthened, crushing them between both hands, as though she was clutching at her own heart.

“First at the scaffold. And now… no one will tell me where he’s buried. I lost him.”

She seemed to have lost herself in the image of the poor man’s fate.

“What must it be like? To be lost twice?”

Aramis’s heart shriveled in his ribcage as he solved her riddle, turning to grey ash, smoke and dust, as though it had been set upon a pyre. He had been so absorbed in his own losses that he had hardly considered.

Lemay.

He would have received the most unbearable funeral imaginable.

A pit in a forest somewhere, a probably a piss or two onto his headless corpse.

_At least Marguerite had some degree, however small, of decency._

“I came here hoping, deep down, that this is where he is. No matter how awful, this is better than…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. “The Red Guards who buried him are still loyal to Rochefort.” She explained, “They laughed at me when I asked. They said he had deserved death. Deserved to be lost. And told me that I would have joined him in his grave…” her words caught in her throat as she relayed their words, “ _had the Musketeer I whored myself out to not come to save me_.”

A steely look set in her face.

“I no longer care what people think of me. None of it compares to dying having everyone think you a traitor. Lemay will never know that his name will be cleared.”

A solitary tear fell from her left eye.

“I don’t even _know_ his first name.”

She took a deep, angry breath.

“Rochefort held my head and made me watch. He made me see the look on Lemay’s face when he realised what was going to happen. As he said... As…” Her back straightened, and she winced, as if she was reliving the sensation, “When the time comes, I will watch _him_ walk to the scaffold. I will watch him die.”

He had never see her so enraged.

“And then I will forget where they bury _him_.”

Aramis gazed at her admirably. A heavy silence filled the air as they both imagined that there could someday come a time when they would both be free, from Rochefort, from the lies and fear, from their remorse, from their hunger for vengeance. A time when the dead could finally be at peace. Then, momentarily forgetting all solemnity, with a rare semblance of his usual humour and charm, he teased:

“You should ask Treville for a commission.”

She looked a little baffled.

“That way, you can stand _on_ the scaffold.” He clarified, before smirking, “I think d’Artagnan would swoon… you all dressed in leather, covered in the blood of your enemy.”

She smiled for the first time that evening, a warm smile, happy at the sight of her friend finding the courage to laugh again.

“I think the Queen has more reason to stand there. Besides, I should _hope_ d’Artagnan would be swooning at me in my wedding gown, rather than drenched in Rochefort’s blood.”

Aramis could not hide his surprise.

Her eyes widened as she realised what she had said and she looked mortified at having let the words slip from her mouth. Clearly, the Musketeer judged, it was a secret they had both wanted to keep a while longer.

“Congratulations.” He said softly, unable to not think about how much he longed for the chance to marry Anne. 

Constance shrugged and stared into the distance.

“You are the only one who knows… it’s only been a couple of days since he asked.”

She was trembling with the cold.

“We don’t know what lies Rochefort will create next. It could be us on the scaffold soon. And if that time comes, we’d rather we went together… as husband and wife. 

She sighed.

“At the moment, it feels a little like its more out of necessity than want…”

The tragedy of such circumstances placed another weight on Aramis’ back, but he did not say anything. He knew that if he had been cautious, if he had denied his heart, his rage and his passion, then perhaps his dearest friends could have married without the threat of death looming over them. He desperately wanted to not dwell on it. _I will go mad if I carry any more burdens._ So he noticed the flowers in her hand again and nodded at them.

“A pretty colour for a wedding dress.”

She looked back down at the lilac flowers in her hand 

“Oh, no, these are…. they’re not…”

She lifted one so Aramis could see it in clearer detail. It had four petals, with minute veins stretching from the centre to its edges and splashes of white, as though it was spattered with snow. It almost looked like a little fleur-de-lis. 

“They’re called ‘Honesty’. They grow in hedges, in the woods… I thought it would be symbolic. Honesty is what Lemay… and what Marguerite deserved. Why not bring them some?”

Aramis rubbed his brow, smearing dirt across it.

And though he thought he could cry no more, his eyes filled with tears, comprehending the beauty of her gesture.

Madame Bonacieux softly placed the wild flowers down beside her and pulled a handkerchief out from seemingly nowhere. It was petite, with delicate flower details and lace edging. It was clearly new, and hadn’t been used yet. She held it out to the grieving Musketeer, who looked confused and a little startled. She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be so silly, Aramis. I’m not giving it to you. It’s for your hands. And your face. Believe it or not, not every woman is so easily seduced by a Musketeer’s affections.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“But you’re going to _marry_ a Musketeer…?”

“I’m going to marry the _King’s champion_ ,” she giggled, “There’s a difference.”

Aramis laughed through his sorrow and accepted the embroidered cloth, beginning to clean away the grime.

His tears dried into the material.

“D’Artagnan has a ‘secret’ collection of my handkerchiefs hidden in a box under his floorboards.” She offered, as he tidied himself up, “He likes to pretend that he misplaced the last one so I will keep giving them to him. No doubt this one will end up amongst them eventually, just as ‘lost’ as the others.”

She had begun to shiver.

Aramis removed her shawl and cocooned her in it once again. She opened her mouth to speak, but her jaw shuddered with the chill, teeth chattering. She made no verbal protest. Then, he wrapped his arms around her, her skin icy to the touch. She rested her head against his shoulder, sharing in his warmth. Two figures, bathed in the red moonlight, identical in their loneliness, only the dead to keep them company.

After a moment, she spoke.

“Perhaps…”

“…Yes?”

“Perhaps we should have a collection.” She whispered contemplatively, gazing at the sky, “Like d’Artagnan.”

“A collection of what?” He asked quietly.

They sat in loyal embrace, as she murmured her deepest wish.

“Of memories..."

She closed her eyes.

"Of _misplaced_ memories.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it (and that beautiful music from Game of Thrones)! In the next chapter, we will return to the trial, to watch the battle recommence! I was about about to say that it will be less miserable, but let's face it, literally _nothing_ cheerful has happened in this so far...
> 
> (Also some shameless promotion... I LOVE Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, and have written a crossover fic between the Gentleman-with-the-Thistledown-Hair and Rochefort. It's called Traitor with the Thistle Crown and is just a one-shot. If you love both Musketeers/JS&MN (and also the image of Marc Warren dancing with Marc Warren), then please check it out! :D)


	10. ROCHEFORT AND ANNE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial continues
> 
> RECAP: Rochefort has been put on trial for treason. If his name is cleared, Aramis and Anne will have to flee to Spain to live in exile, until the dauphin comes of age. Rochefort's defence consists of his claim that _Anne_ is in fact the spy in court and is now set on proving it true. Meanwhile, Durante, the man who tortured Rochefort in the Spanish prison, has been sent to kill the accused... unless he can convince him that he is still a useful asset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS! I am so, so, so, sorry that it has taken so long to be updated! I've made it extra long to make up for lost time (nearly 4000 words instead of the usual 2500)! Writing will resume normal scheduling now (AKA every week and a half or so) because I've finished filming/moving house/attending conventions! :D Plus, this is like the third or fourth re-write (my beta reader and sister, Tybss- check out her stuff- told me it was dull...)
> 
> I hope it's not a major let-down (OR DULL) after so much time... that would be the worst xD
> 
> A WARNING- THERE ARE UPCOMING SCENES BETWEEN ROCHEFORT/ANNE SET WHEN SHE WAS A CHILD. CREEPY SEXUAL UNDERTONES ARE PRESENT BUT NOTHING EXPLICIT OCCURS
> 
> HISTORICAL NOTE: Anne of Austria married Louis XIII in November 1615. He was still under the charge of his mother, the Queen Regent, Marie de Medici (who I'm sure we all remember from season 1! :D)

“These legal proceedings, concerning the Comte de Rochefort, who stands charged with high treason, will now resume forthwith.”

Durante’s painfully flawless accent caused the accused’s hands to curl into repulsed fists.

How _ignorant_ were they all to believe _him_ French?

“And let us be more _civilised_ about it this time.” Louis sighed, rubbing his brow. Rochefort had heard rumour from his few remaining loyal guards that the King had not wanted to hold court at all today. He had apparently sulked in bed, claiming he was weary from yesterday, only rising and dressing after his ministers had persuaded him that the trial could not _possibly_ continue without him. He’s a _spoilt child_ , the Comte grumbled, not wanting to admit to himself that he was more than a little irritated that he wasn’t worth the King’s time.

This must be how _Treville_ feels.

Anne was still sat at the jury’s table beside the King, despite the new allegations. Today, Rochefort thought she appeared as Queen Boudicca would have appeared before the Romans; a vengeful wrath set in her eyes but a gracious smile set upon her lips. It was a look that assured those who crossed her that she _was_ the most powerful woman in France and she would _not_ be afraid to exercise that power in order to see justice done.

It made him desire her all the more.

“Without question, your Majesty,” Durante remarked dutifully, “I am sure that everyone present will prove themselves efficient… in _every_ sense of the word.”

He bowed slightly, ensuring that he caught Rochefort’s eye as he did so, and then referred to his papers.

“During yesterday’s hearing, his Majesty collected the opening statements from both parties. As his defence, the accused brought to light some new accusations against the plaintiff, to accompany his sustained claims of her Majesty’s infidelity and the dauphin’s illegitimacy. Despite these allegations, in the eyes of this court, being far from coherent and certain affirmation of his treason…”

Rochefort watched Anne hold her breath.

“…the King has decided to hear Rochefort’s defence and any proof that he may be able to provide to substantiate it.”

Though she didn’t visibly react, the Queen’s spirit clearly diminished a little.

It was the same hidden sadness he had seen in Spain.

_Oh Anne…_

_Mi_ _pequeña reina…_

_I_ _could take you_ _home._

_#_

_SPAIN- NOVEMBER 1614_

_“Insister, instruire, interdire… in… inte…” The young princess exhaled tiredly and turned her head to look out of the window. She felt as though her tongue was tied in knots from reciting an endless list of verbs, most of which she imagined she would never use. No doubt I will be under strict instructions to be silent by my prospective husband, she thought resignedly… or his mother, the Queen Regent._

_And perhaps even this new tutor…?_

_Her father had not told her anything about him, simply that he was coming to teach her court etiquette, any foreign customs she should be aware of and, of course, to ensure that she was fluent in the French language._

_She couldn’t help but feel nervous._

_She wished her mother had not died three years earlier. She would have had this stranger investigated thoroughly before he could spend a single moment alone with her daughter; her father, however, suffered both from lack of interest and lack of forethought. He chose to spend his time with his son and heir, sometimes barely acknowledging his eldest child._

_A knock on the door._

_She stood, smoothed down her skirts and set her shoulders back._

_She tried to forget that she was still a child._

_“Enter.”_

_The panelled door swung open and the menacing figure of a man emerged. The young princess took in a sharp breath as he entered, giving a small bow._

_He was probably in his late twenties, fair hair cut short and slicked back, with cold eyes that she felt she could see right through. He was **dressed** like a Frenchman, she thought, observing him suspiciously, as he though he were from another world entirely. Handsome, certainly, but **French.**_

_Perhaps he is a spy?_

_Frenchmen in the Royal Court were **always** spies, she decided, the thought not truly her own, but something her brother had said once._

_He stood waiting for her to speak first._

_“Who are you,_ _señor_ _?”_

_“I am the Comte de Rochefort, Your Highness.” He replied in Spanish._

_“A Comte?_

_“Indeed, your Highness. But just ‘Rochefort’ will suffice.”_

_He took a step further into the room and she resisted the temptation to back away._

_“I have been employed by His Majesty to instruct you, over this next year, in what you need to know before leaving for Paris.” He drawled in his clipped voice, “A queen has a great deal of responsibility and duty to uphold. I hope that I can make your transition into the French court a little… easier.”_

_A spy, she thought. Definitely a spy._

_His gaze settled upon her face, but strangely, she did not feel uncomfortable._

_“I also hope that you should consider me an ally. A companion. Someone to trust and to confide in. I am a foreigner in your land, just as you will be in mine. So, you see, we already have something in common.”_

_He seemed to barely blink._

_“A young princess can, I imagine, become so unbearably lonely?”_

_She smiled tentatively. Most people were on edge around her, desperate not to offend, or frighten, or somehow be accused of treason. But he almost seemed comfortable, relaxed, as though he addressed princesses in such an intimate matter on a daily basis._

_“Sometimes.” She admitted._

_She couldn’t remember ever having someone who she could call a true friend. There were the other girls at court, daughters of lords and nobleman, but all treated her with a reverence that she imagined wasn’t present in conventional friendships. They allowed her to choose the games. They let her walk at the front of the group. They would exchange nervous glances if she appeared to have a change of mood. Some only spoke to her when she addressed them._

_It was as though she were friends with dolls._

_But this gentleman seemed unthreatened and as though he would not bow easily to her demands. She wondered what had happened to make him that way._

_“Are you…” She ventured, wondering what extraordinary answer this mysterious man could create, “Are you to be my friend,_ _señor?”_

_The words sounded sad on her tongue._

_The Comte de Rochefort raised his eyebrows and smiled enigmatically._

_“I can be whatever you wish me to be, your Highness.”_

_She couldn’t help but feel disappointed._

_#_

“In light of the King's decision,” Durante continued unenthusiastically, “and in a _highly_ unorthodox manner, the court wishes to bring the accused to the stand _first_ , so that he may explain his defence in more explicit detail. Therefore, Rochefort… please face this council.”

Rochefort, who, despite his ordeals, held the same air of confidence as he had done all those years ago, had one brief satisfying moment of triumph.

Enough time to realise that he still had a grip on Louis’ feeble mind.

That his detailed plan could be set in motion.

That he could yet still make it out of this _alive_.

However, before being able to fully savour this first victory, Rochefort felt the guard to his left push his shoulder roughly. Stumbling forward from the strength of it, he nearly fell flat on his face. The proud Comte felt humiliation flush in his cheeks. It was a pitiful beginning to his exquisitely crafted deception. He ignored d’Artagnan and Porthos’s muffled snorts of laughter.

Instead, he turned his head to shoot the flat-nosed man a venomous glare.

“Being chained at the wrist does _not_ impede my ability to _walk at the sound of my own name_ ,” he hissed before obliging the anticipating council, advancing to the centre of the room. Predatory, like a hawk hunting sparrows. Incensed, like a dancing bear who longs to swipe its paws at those who mock it. He stood like a soldier on the battlefield.

_Now is the time to end this._

The elderly Archbishop stood momentarily to repeat yesterday’s inconsequential warning.

“Please remember that you are under sacred oath, Monsieur.”

Rochefort gave a small nod. He neglected to respond that he now cared so little for God, who had sent the blue-eyed demon back into his accursed life, that the previous night, he had ripped his crucifix from around his neck and tossed it against his cell wall. It now lay in the dirt, begging for a match to set it aflame. He made a note to himself to acquire one. If God is leaving me to my funeral pyre, the Comte thought bitterly, as the aforementioned demon idly wandered out from behind the table, whether the fire is lit by French or Spanish hands, then _he can be the first thing to burn._

Durante came to a stop before him, although was careful not to block the King’s view.

“Repeat what you told the court yesterday.”

Rochefort forced himself to look him in the eye.

“I believe that I informed the court that the Queen is a Spanish agent.”

The council members appeared as though they were going to begin gossiping again, but Durante held up a firm hand to silence them.

“And…?”

“And… that these… _witnesses_ … who have come forward to testify against me are simply her pawns. Strategically placed within the royal court to protect and serve her interests, and, therefore, Spain’s.”

Louis yawned and sat forward.

“And you said that you have evidence of this?” The foolish King inquired, casting an obligatory suspicious glance at the collection of witnesses, most of whom were looking furious that this charade was being allowed to continue.

“Indeed, your Majesty.”

He lifted his chin confidently.

“My lords, all witnesses and documents pertaining to my claim have been painstakingly gathered by myself over these past few months. Of course, my allegations are not merely suggesting that treason is a recent phenomenon in your court, your Majesty. Therefore much of what I will present has been collected with some _additional_ assistance… from the late Cardinal Richelieu.”

The King froze at the sound of the Cardinal’s name.

There was no one who he had trusted more than his Eminence, Rochefort knew, and there was no one else whose name would add the same amount of credibility to his argument.

In actuality, Richelieu’s personal effects, still in the process of being catalogued and auctioned by the church, had been less than useless. For a man whose entire existence had been fraught with intrigue, espionage and corruption, his bureau full of letters had proved dull and formal to Rochefort’s prowling eyes, filled with repetitive complaints about the Musketeers’ rowdy behaviour and stuffy church business.

With the exception of _one_.

But the time had not yet come to reveal it.

Something _vital_ had to be discussed first.

“The Cardinal…?” Louis breathed.

“ _I am the most important man in France.”_ Richelieu had once said to Rochefort, on one of the many occasions where he had asserted his dominance using his talent for threat, “ _My name is power. To be Richelieu’s enemy, is to sign one’s own death warrant. To be Richelieu’s friend… is a very great advantage indeed.”_

“Precisely, your Majesty. A good _friend_ of yours, and of mine, no less.”

Rochefort knew that he had only had one true friend in his entire life.

It had _certainly_ not been the Cardinal.

#

_JANUARY 1615_

_Angry footsteps thudded toward the library, where Anne was quietly sketching diagrams of how she imagined France to look. Much the same as Spain, she had decided, but with apples instead of oranges on the trees and everything painted with gold fleur-de-lis, to match the gaudy Bourbon flag. The nook in which she hid was full of drawing of this fantasy Paris._

_And she intended to take each and every one of them with her._

_I hope it is not Señora Varela looking for me, she sighed, thinking of her strict chaperone, as the footsteps grew closer._

_She jumped as the library door burst open and Rochefort stormed in._

_He was apparently unaware that she was watching him. For a moment, he frightened her. He had always seemed so controlled, restrained in his manner and void of any strong emotion. She curled up even tighter into the nook, determined that she would not be spotted, eager for this rare chance to observe this enigma. Whilst they met and spoke every day, she still did not really know anything about him._

_She could not help but gasp as he punched a wall repeatedly, spitting curses in French._

_Once his initial rage had pacified, he stood leaning against the panelling for a few moments, breathing heavily, before pulling a small piece of parchment from his coat. The seal had already been broken. Even from a distance, Anne could see that the red wax bore a crucifix and she wondered what man of the church, who often were so humble and poor, would be so important as to have his own seal._

_She watched him read it, over and over again._

_She watched a dark shadow pass over his face._

_Feeling as though she was intruding, she turned to gather her pencils and paper, ready to make a swift escape after he had left._

_“I know you are there.”_

_She stopped breathing._

_“You don’t have to hide.”_

_Slowly, she emerged from where she lurked and stood facing Rochefort. He made no attempt to stash the letter. He did not smile, as he usually did when in her presence, but he still stood at attention. She could see him shaking with emotion._

_“You are upset,_ _señor…” she began._

_“I sincerely apologise for my disgraceful conduct, your Highness,” he interrupted, in a low tone, “You have my word that this will not happen again.”_

_She approached him and met his gaze. He looked confused but did not move away from her. He did not even tense as she wrapped her arms around him, in comforting embrace. She felt his hands rest tenderly on her back and his head lean on hers. He smelt of gunpowder, as so many of the guards in the court did, from the endless target practice they seemed to entertain themselves with._

_She wondered what he had been shooting at._

_“You are the one who need not hide, Rochefort. There is no shame in showing how you feel.”_

_Anne decided not to ask what news the letter had contained._

_That was a question for a later time._

_“You must not be afraid to be open. You showed me moments ago that there is a man behind that mask you wear. And though I have only seen him angry,” she whispered into his shoulder, assuring him as though he were one of her brothers, “I am certain that there is a great deal of compassion and love that I will see.”_

_“Love…?” The Comte murmured._

_His grip on her grew ever so slightly stronger._

_“I… I do not know what that feels like.”_

_Anne pulled away and beamed at him. She could not bear the thought of someone who had never known affection. But suddenly, his character had seemed to fall into place; the simple trope of a lonely nobleman who distanced himself from others because he did not know how to love. He was the tragic, isolated hero from so many stories she had read and imagined. And with this knowledge, the young princess was certain that if she could learn to love her siblings, who often plagued her with irritation, then she could most definitely adopt this gentleman as a brother, and teach him the most valuable of lessons._

_“I can show you, monsieur.” She assured him, “You can teach me French and I will teach you love.”_

#

“But perhaps…” Rochefort continued, now that Richelieu was the patron of his argument, and with the imprint of Anne’s arms around him still on his skin, “you wish me to present my findings in a chronological fashion? His Eminence’s latest letters date from January 1638… well, from _9 months_ before the Dauphin’s birth. I have information that far predates that.”

Louis frowned.

“Well, how far back are we talking, Rochefort?” He enquired irritably, clearly not wanting to be subjected to a lengthy history lesson. The Lords around him looked unsurprised at their king’s apathy, knowing that he would much prefer to be in the company of the bishops and knights in his chess set, and leave this business for another day.

The Comte raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“As early as 1614, Sire.”

“ _1614_?”

“Yes, Sire.”

Louis’s face went blank.

“But… but the Queen and I were wed in _1615_ …?”

“I think what the accused is trying to imply,” Anne interrupted quietly, placing her hand on Louis’, the very sight of it sending pangs of jealousy down Rochefort’s spine, “is that he not only believes I have given you an illegitimate heir and masterminded an underground ring of spies, but I was plotting these treasons against you when I was _13 years old_.”

The smile still had not left her face.

“Have I interpreted your _theory_ correctly, Rochefort?”

The Comte’s fingers twitched with the longing to touch her.

He could not decide whether it was to caress her pale bosom or to wring her slender neck.

Or _both_.

“Far from it, your Majesty.” He acknowledged Anne directly for the first time that day, “I merely meant to suggest that an _impressionable_ child, still devoted to Spain, unmarried and barely bled, would be easily seduced by the notion of remaining loyal to her father and brother, even after her virginity had been claimed by…”

The corners of his lips turned up a little at the memory.

“You were always so _poetic_. A little songbird, in your gilded cage. ‘ _Endogámicas bastardo’_ I believe was the phrase you were so _fond_ of…”

Aramis jolted in his seat, shocked at the foul language so casually spoken about the King, _in the King’s presence_.

“WHAT DID HE SAY?” Louis bellowed, having not understood a word of the terrible insult paid to him.

“He can speak Spanish!” a brash juryman cried.

“What sort _Frenchman_ speaks _Spanish_?” exclaimed another.

“ _Pragmatic_ ones, my lord…” Rochefort drawled at them, exasperated at their stupidity.

“WHAT DID HE…” Louis tried again, but was cut off.

Anne had barely flinched at this reminder that she was still considered a foreigner in her own kingdom.

“You use a child’s words against me, monsieur. My brother’s words, no less, which I mimicked, as children do. I am a child no longer. And, as such, have learned to speak for myself. And that is _no_ _longer_ my opinion.”

_#_

_MARCH 1615_

_“But why can a Queen not assist the King in making important political decisions? If she is to give him an heir, then surely she is allowed to ask for something in return?”_

_Anne was engaged in one of her many heated debates with her tutor, with whom she had grown so familiar with over just a few months, that she was not afraid to voice even her most radical and controversial opinions. Since their tender meeting in the library, both had seemed to open up to each other far more, (although he still would not tell her the contents of the mysterious letter). Rochefort, it had turned out, was a marvellous listener, as well as speaker, and seemed to genuinely absorb every word she said._

_How she had craved for such an ear for so long!_

_They were strolling through the gardens, despite the fact it was chillier than a usual spring day. They followed the same route each time, with her chaperone and attendants trailing behind to ensure nothing untoward went on. Anne had insisted to them that Rochefort was to be trusted, that he would never cause her harm, but they paid her pleas no attention._

_Her arm rested on his._

_“A queen may have anything she wishes, your Highness.”_

_“But why not a voice?”_

_Rochefort did not look at her as he replied, instead focusing on the path ahead. Perhaps he cannot bear to see the disappointment in my face, Anne thought, knowing precisely what his answer was going to be._

_“A queen never speaks for herself. Her words should either belong to her husband or her people.”_

_She felt her emotion swell within her._

_“So I am doomed to forever echo the words of a… a…” She sighed heavily, “My brother says all Frenchmen, especially the King, are **inbred bastards** …”_

_Rochefort flinched at the insult._

_She realised what she had said and felt horror that she had ever uttered such foul words._

_She had also completely forgotten whose company she kept._

_“Oh monsieur, I apologise, I meant no offence…my brother…!” she garbled, flustered._

_The Frenchman shook his head._

_“No offence taken, your Highness… perhaps it is best, though, if His Highness’ opinions remain out of your mind and mouth? I do not think His Majesty, and certainly not the Queen Regent, would take kindly to such **colourful** language.”_

_He looked at her, with a look so grave that it would stay with her for many years after, fading back into the forefront of her mind whenever a pompous French noble spoke painfully slowly to her, as if she were deranged, or a spectator on the street heckled with calls of “Spanish whore” or “inbred witch!” It was a look that beautifully expressed the initial hostility she would later have forged into armour; a helmet to spare her mind from such hatred and a breastplate to protect her heart._

_“You see now, Rochefort, what the words of men are in the mouth of a princess?”_

_Anne stared up at the cloudless sky._

_“Imagine what they become in a Queen’s.”_

#

“Your opinion may have changed,” Rochefort declared, the image of naïve Princess Anne still lingering over him, “It cannot be denied that a student often carries the influence of their tutor into maturity. Especially one who often reiterates lessons they learnt from their father.”

“My father did not care to oversee my education and, if I recall correctly, he certainly did not care for _you_. What part does he play in this?”

Anne still had not lost her temper.

But the jurymen were each exchanging glances, noting how aggressive she sounded. While Rochefort had seen this streak of her personality on several occasions, and bore a violet scar from the bite of her hairpin, most were unaccustomed to witnessing her as anything other than poised and composed.

Louis seemed frustrated that he was confused.

“Will someone _please_ care to explain what this is all about? What relevance does the Queen’s father have?”

He turned to look at his wife.

“I confess… I do not fully understand the accused’s point myself.” She murmured, clearly rifling through her memories to work out what Rochefort was alluding to. Aramis had a grim look on his face as he watched her think.

“My first piece of evidence, your Majesty, is a letter I received when tutoring her Majesty in Spain. I am sure you remember my receiving it?”

Anne nodded.

“It was from his Eminence, ordering me to obey any, and all, instructions from the King regarding the Queen’s education. No matter how useless they seemed…”

He paused.

“Or no matter how detrimental to France they would prove.”

Rochefort took a deep breath, as though he were about to dive into deep water.

“What I am trying to express to your Majesty, is that I know the Queen is a Spanish agent…”

The words were delicious on his tongue.

_“Because I trained her to become one.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for your endless patience! I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I was thinking about turning it into a podfic at some point... hmmm....
> 
> Chloe  
> xxxx


	11. INTERLUDE: THE PRISONER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She believes he does not love her, but she will never stop loving him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good God, where has this month gone? I had such good intentions to write and now it's been a month and I've done basically nothing and... *sigh* I need university to start again, then writing fanfiction will feel like a guilty pleasure/procrastination and I'll get round to it more xD
> 
> I thought I'd write you this brief interlude while polishing up the next chapter. It's a little taste of what is to come... and a lot longer than originally intended!
> 
> Beta read by Tybss

_“I have nothing you want.”_

_Those were the first words she had spoken since awakening. She had not even screamed when they pulled out handfuls of her dark hair, or when they trod on her ankles to shatter the bone. Like her husband, she knew that silence was a weapon, sometimes more powerful than words. A silence held could drive someone mad. Turn people to desperate beasts. And could keep you alive._

_But the first man who had tormented her, one with foul threats on his breath, had left._

_And when another man, with a gruesome stump where his tongue had been, came to keep her company, she knew that they were using her own weapon against her._

_They sat in silence for three days._

_And, strong minded and strong willed as she was, the repetitive drip of a leak in the ceiling and the relentless squeaks of hidden rats were slowly gnawing away at her sanity._

_“Did you hear me?”_

_Anger rose in her voice._

_“I have nothing you want!”_

_The mute man just stared at her._

_She knew her captors were Spanish. She’d heard them speaking outside the room when she’d first arrived. What would Spaniards want with her? Perhaps they know of my dealings with Rochefort, she wondered, or perhaps they believe that I am still close to the King…?_

_“If you remain under the impression,” she ventured, “that I am still a favourite of the King… then you are mistaken. I lost his love some time ago.”_

_She laughed bitterly._

_“I lost all of the love that I kept.”_

_He hadn’t come. Something had almost convinced her that he would. It was that hunger in his eyes, not a lust, but a need to be with her. As though he could not see without her light, as though he could not hear without her voice, as though he could not breathe without her lungs. As though without her to lean on, his bones would crumble beneath the weight of the world and he would be nothing but dust._

_Yet, somehow, she doubted he was lost without her now._

_He had not come._

_He had chosen a life without her._

_‘La dama de invierno’ traced her finger along her scarred neck._

_“Of course…” she whispered, trying a new tactic, “I could always regain his favour… I am sure you know that he is weak-minded, easily seduced. After all, that is why you sent Rochefort….”_

_If they took the bait and released her, she would go back to Athos, as difficult as it would be to face him again. He could get Treville to take action against her captors. **Legal** action. She would not have to kill._

_She had sworn that she would never kill again._

_The door swung open._

_“You have missed the point, Madame.”_

_The figure spoke French… with a French accent._

_He was young and tall, around 22, with a gaunt face, a tangle of blond hair and bulging green eyes. And the prisoner recognised him as Voclain, another of Richelieu’s associates, having entered into his service aged only 15 and quickly become known for his disregard of mercy. He had immediately become very fond of Rochefort, placing him upon a pedestal, and believing his position as an agent in Spain to be the ultimate of aspirations._

_He had no idea that Rochefort harboured an intense dislike for him. Milady remembered watching the young boy beg the Cardinal to pay the ransom for the captured Comte, completely unaware that the man whose life he pleaded for would never do the same for him._

_“Voclain…” She rolled her eyes and sighed, “I always knew you’d end up like this. What did the Spanish offer **you** for your service? The **King**?” She added, remembering his interest in other boys._

_Voclain shook his head and laughed, a hacking sort of sound as a result of setting one too many buildings on fire. The mute man, who still sat staring, opened his mouth to join in the motion, although no sound came out._

_“I have no interest in the King, Milady. And this might be a Spanish safe-house, but I’m not working for Vargas. I hate the Spanish, same as you. No, what I need, is for a friend, and is something that should be quite easy to get.”_

_“And what would that be?”_

_A rat crossed the floor and he bent down to pick it up by its tail. It squirmed in his grip._

_“Your co-operation. And your voice.”_

_“Would you like me to sing for you?” She growled sarcastically._

_He did not answer. Instead, he just stood there, watching the fat rodent desperately try to wriggle free, fangs bared and legs flailing to defend itself. Eventually, after a few endless moments, he wrung its tiny neck and watched its head loll limply. His hands were now slit open by its claws, but he did not seem phased._

_He flung it at her and it smacked her in the cheek._

_She glared at him loathingly._

_“I suppose that was meant to be symbolic?”_

_“Yep.” He pointed at her, “You’re you, obviously, and that,” he proceeded to point at the rat corpse, “is someone close to you if you don’t do what I want you to do.”_

_Amusement passed across her face._

_“I know you know very well that I am just like you. Alone and forsaken by this world. So, Voclain, your threat lacks a little impact. But, I suppose that rats without their brains aren’t very good at coming up with metaphors either.”_

_Voclain’s face changed, clearly not stupid enough to have missed the insult that had so blindingly painted her words. A vein in his neck pulsed. One eyebrow twitched. He looked so angry that she momentarily wondered if she had made a mistake in provoking him, especially as both of her ankles were broken and she had no chance of escaping._

_“I might not be as clever as you, but at least I’m not chained to a wall. I chose the right side.”_

_“And whose side is that?”_

_He stepped forward and trod on the dead rat, with so much force that it burst open. Its insides leaked out across the floor. A thimbleful of guts. A little round eyeball. A brain no larger than a peanut. She felt bile rise in her throat at the sight of it._

_“The side that **squashes** rat’s brains. Rats like the Musketeers, like the Spanish, like **you**. The side that wants you to testify in the royal court. To tell the King exactly what he needs to hear.”_

_She shook her head, disgusted._

_“Rochefort. Who would have thought you’d still be licking his boots after all this time…?”_

_She looked him directly in the eye and snarled._

_“And what happens if I don’t do what you want? Are you going to kill me?”_

_She didn’t bother to explain that ultimately, her death would mean nothing, to no-one._

_Voclain just smiled at her, then at the sky, as if laughing at God, then to himself. The man with no tongue grinned too, and Milady suddenly felt as though she was missing an inside joke. Then the young spy, still a child when they had first met, leaned forward and pushed a strand of hair away from her face, before latching his fingers in her hair, pulling on her scalp and dragging her head back._

_She still did not cry out in pain._

_He stared at the skin on her neck, burnt by the noose._

_“Oh Milady… surely you didn’t think I’d never find out about **Athos**?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it- I really loved writing Milady (and of course, I'll be writing her again in the future!) <3 The next chapter is nearly finished, so it'll be up soon (and this time, I don't mean another month)! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading- I hope you continue to follow the story!


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